Ride home in silence. He’s staring straight ahead. You watch the parking lots and glowing signs and all the big boxy shops, doubled, tripled—three of the same electronics store, two of the same office supply, parking lots up to strip malls with six of the same sandwich shop, irrigation ditches, retention ponds, chain link fencing around holes in the earth, asphalt that stretches to a single streetlight on the horizon, trees that’ll be gone next month, trees that’ll be gone next year, public storage, u-stor-it, self storage, storage compartments, Toyota, Ford, Hyundai, Nissan, Toyota, Nissan, Hyundai, Ford, Toyota, Nissan, Hyundai, Hyundai, the open windows, the lights in all the other houses, the sitting rooms and dining tables, lace curtains, weathervanes, wrought iron, flagpole, silver garden globe, cold pizza. Peel the tape off and pull out the inserts, slip fingers between the beveled plastic edge and the jewel case, dig nails into the notches, scrape nails along the washboard ridges on the spine, a fold-out map, this year’s catalog (each screenshot’s an open window,) the spiralbound guide that you hold in your hands. There are bodies to wear. Boys with short hair. Boys with long hair. Girls with short hair. Girls with long hair. Girls in leather. Boys in robes. Leering eyes of beasts, lascivious dripping tongues, deep purple lips, spotted skin over a ribcage and a jutting pelvis, slime, acid, blood, mucous, spit.