In the seventies, kids had nothing to do in the way back of the station wagon, the carbon monoxide seeping through the floor into cigarette smoke–laced air, uncut by air conditioning. Forcibly exposed to whatever terrible music your parents were into at the time, you looked out the window to remind yourself there was somewhere else. You looked out the window to watch the scenery. You counted mile indicators or wove your eyes in and out of the dashes between lanes while you thought about where you were going.
