"Where are you?" his ex-wife asked, her helium voice floating out from the public phone. It was a sound that was seductive when they first met, but Ev had grown to detest it during the last years of their marriage. It had been like being married to a party stunt.

Ev sniffled and looked down at his doughy, hairless stomach. The muscles spasmed from too much caffeine, no food and the drive across the prairie. His bad leg ached from working the gas pedal all night. Checking the thermometer on the brick facade of the Common Cents convenience store, he decided it was not a good sign that he was shivering. It read 110 degrees in the shade. The outside phone was squarely in the sun.

"I'm at Wall. I'm sitting in my car in my underwear," he said. "I'm sunburned, my leg hurts, and I think I have hypothermia. I've been driving for 12 hours on gas I stole from a Superamerica, and I'm strung out on No-Doz. I saw the best minds of my generation lining the road–literally."

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