The radio in his car had
stopped settling on one
station. It drifted — a
half-song here, a voice
talking about weather
somewhere he'd never
been, static, then
another half-song.
He drove the same route
he drove every evening,
and for once he didn't
mind that nothing stayed.
His hands knew the
wheel. His foot knew the
speed. The rest of him
floated somewhere between
the frequencies, and it
was the closest thing to
rest he'd had all week.
At a red light he turned
it up a little. The
static sounded almost like
rain.