"I," Mouse begins, and then gives up. He doesn't really care whose fault it is that the car smells; he's just taunting her.

Moving slowly, like a pilot at the controls of an unfamiliar plane, he gets the Buick's engine started, then spends a long moment studying the dashboard gauges and indicators, the blinker switches, and the gearshift. Mouse expects him to be reckless behind the wheel, like Maledicta, but just the opposite is true -- when he finally releases the parking brake and gets moving, he turns out to be even more cautious a driver than Mouse herself. On the way out of the rest stop, he yields to every vehicle that crosses his path, and at the top of the highway on-ramp hesitates so long before merging, waiting for the perfect gap in traffic, that other cars and trucks stacked up behind him start to honk. Once on the Interstate, he keeps to the right-hand lane and holds the speedometer at fifty, twenty-five miles per hour below the posted speed limit.

"So," says Mouse, thinking to make small talk, maybe learn his name and something about him, but he cuts her off.

"Don't distract me while I'm driving," he says.

"Sorry," Mouse apologizes. Chagrined, she slides down in her seat a little -- -- and the car is stopped again, and she's being shaken awake. When Mouse opens her eyes and sees him leaning over her, a hand on her leg, she lets out a sharp squeak, and he starts, thumping his head hard against the roof of the car.

"OW!" he roars, stumbling backwards out of the Centurion, hand pressed to the back of his skull. "d.a.m.n it, you stupid b.i.t.c.h!. . . I wasn't trying to hurt you, it's just your turn to drive. . ."

Mouse sits up. They're parked at another rest stop. It's smaller than the last one, set in a broad green valley among snow-capped mountains, the Rockies most likely. Mouse checks the dashboard clock: 11:25. "Where are we?"

"Montana," he tells her, wincing. "Past Missoula, coming up on b.u.t.te. I just got us gas. . . Ow!"

"Sorry," says Mouse, though she isn't, really. She gently fingers the back of her own neck; she's mostly recovered from her run-in with the tree, but there's still some residual tenderness, and she's going to have to watch that it doesn't flare up again. For now, though, she feels OK.

She's also starving. She climbs out of the car, and looks around to see what the rest stop has to offer in the way of food.

"I've got you covered," he says.

"What?"

"You're hungry, right?" He points to a white paper sack on the roof of the car. "I got you a hamburger and fries. There's a Pepsi in there, too."

"Oh. . . thank you." Of course he's not really being considerate; he just doesn't want to have to worry about her sneaking off to use the phone. Mouse thinks about going into a restaurant anyway, just to defy him -- now that she's seen him b.u.mp his head, he's not so scary anymore. But scary or not, he's still got the car keys, and if he gets mad he might drive off without her.

Despite the snowy peaks, it's actually warmer here than at the Idaho rest stop. The sky is clear and the sun is almost directly overhead; the midday wind is gentle and not so cold. Mouse eats standing up beside the car. He leans against the front hood and smokes a cigarette -- a Winston, Maledicta's brand.

"Are you going to tell me your name?" Mouse asks between bites.

He shakes his head, exhaling smoke.

"What do I call you, then?"

"Try 'Andrew.' "

"No," says Mouse. "I don't think so."

He scowls at her. "I am Andy Gage, you know," he says. "More than any of those others. They aren't even real, they're just. . . delusions with egos."

"What about Xavier?"

"What about him?"

"Well, it seems like the two of you are. . . working together, sort of. Is he a delusion?"

"Xavier is a tool," he says. "A useless tool," he adds, annoyed. "I mean, you've met him: he was supposed to be clever, but it turns out he's got about as much guile as a hubcap. A housefly could outwit him. And he's also a coward. . ."

"A coward?" says Mouse.

He puffs on his cigarette.

"Did you," Mouse tries a different tack, "did you make Xavier? Call him out, the way Aaron called out Andrew?"

He chuckles, as if she's just said something amusing, but he doesn't answer the question.

"Finish up," he tells her a moment later, dropping his cigarette b.u.t.t on the ground and stepping on it. "I want to keep moving."

"All right. . ." Mouse pops a last french fry into her mouth and looks around for a place to dump her garbage. . . but he takes the bag and the half-empty soda can from her and tosses them on the ground beside his cigarette b.u.t.t. "Come on," he says.

He hands her the car keys and climbs in the back. Mouse gets into the driver's seat. She doesn't like having him behind her, but it's more discomfort than fear now; she's all but certain he has no intention of harming her. And even if something happened where he did try to hurt her, she can sense Maledicta and Malefica lounging near the cave mouth, ready to step forward to defend her.

A realization hits her then, and she can't help laughing.

"What?" he says. "What's funny?"

"Nothing," says Mouse. She uses the sound of the engine start to mask another snort of laughter.

No, nothing's funny, except that against all expectation, and without meaning to, she's taken Dr. Grey's advice and started thinking of her Society as allies.

The realization leads to another: she may have allies, but evidently he doesn't. He called Xavier "useless"; and it doesn't sound like there are any other souls he can call on in a crisis. So maybe if Mouse could precipitate a crisis, create a situation that he couldn't handle on his own, maybe that would cause someone else, a non-ally, to come out -- Andrew, or Andrew's father, or at least someone who could put her in touch with them.

It's something to think about while she's driving. She does think about it, even going so far as to discuss the idea, silently, with Maledicta. But Maledicta's not much help; when Mouse asks what would be a good way to shock their pa.s.senger into giving up control of Andrew's body, Maledicta replies: "Why don't you let Malefica tie him to the back b.u.mper and drag him for a few miles?" She says this like she's not kidding.

"I don't want to hurt him," Mouse says. "At least, I don't want to hurt Andrew."

"What you need to do," another Society member speaks up, "is get him talking about himself.

Find out what he's afraid of."

It's a good idea, but he's not interested in talking, particularly not about his fears. "Just keep driving," he tells her.

She keeps driving; she talks to herself. The Society keeps its collective eyes peeled for an opportunity to fool or force him into switching.

By 2:45 on the dashboard clock they're in Billings, where Mouse stops for more gas. Rather than hunt up Maledicta's Sh.e.l.l card, she insists that he pay for it. After the gas station they go to an Arby's to eat -- he pays for that too, with one of Andrew's twenty-dollar bills -- and use the bathrooms. Once more Mouse tries to hurry her business, but when she comes out of the ladies' he's right there waiting for her. They go back out to the car. He's ready to drive again, but Mouse, unwilling to give up control, says she's good for another few hours.

They cross the state line into Wyoming at 4:52. At 6:39 Mouse notices the sun starting to go down, which seems early, until she remembers: traveling east, almost a thousand miles from Seattle already, they're in a new time zone. She thinks about resetting the dashboard clock, but Maledicta, up in the cave mouth, argues against it: "You want it set to the wrong time, to headf.u.c.k that f.u.c.ker in the back seat. If you're going to f.u.c.king change it, you should make it more wrong. Set it to f.u.c.king Tokyo time."

In the end, Mouse leaves the clock as it is.

The Rockies are well behind them now; they are crossing a broad swath of gra.s.sland that stretches between the Bighorn Mountains and the Black Hills. Traffic is very spa.r.s.e here, and the rolling sameness of the scenery makes for dull driving. Mouse, who has maintained a conservative sixty-five miles an hour for most of the afternoon, lets the Buick's speed creep up to the posted maximum of seventy-five. Then Malefica, bored and in a mood for mischief, slips out in a moment of distraction and puts some real lead in Penny Driver's right foot.

-- and so just as the sun dips below the horizon, flashing lights appear behind them, a siren wails, and Mouse looks to find the speedometer needle edging towards one hundred.

"Oh G.o.d," Mouse says.

"-- slow down, you idiot!" he yells from the back seat, has been yelling. "Slow down, slow down, slow down --"

She is slowing down -- her foot is off the gas, and the needle swings back, to ninety, eighty, sixty, forty. The patrol car is right on her tail now, its lights still flashing, signaling her to pull over. Mouse steers the Centurion obediently onto the soft shoulder.

In the back seat he's having a meltdown.

"You stupid, stupid. . ." he sputters, at a loss for an epithet to use on her. "What were you driving so fast for?"

"It. . ." Mouse sputters in turn, "I don't think it was me."

"Oh great."

"I'm the one who's going to get in trouble, you know," Mouse points out. "I don't see what you're getting so upset about."

"You'd just better not try anything," he warns. "You'd better not say anything, about. . ."

"Don't worry about it." In fact Mouse has already considered the possibility, and rejected it. If she was unwilling to dial 911 from the Idaho rest stop, there's no way she's going to try explaining her situation to a cop who's just pulled her over for speeding.

The Wyoming state trooper is out of his car, one hand holding a flashlight, the other resting on the b.u.t.t of his gun. He walks up, raps a knuckle on Mouse's window. She rolls it down.

"Good evening," the trooper says. He bends his face down to the window and shines his flashlight around the Centurion's interior. Mouse waits patiently and surprisingly calmly to be asked for her license and registration, but her pa.s.senger rocks anxiously in the back seat, sucking in his breath as the light flicks over him.

The trooper's nose twitches.

Oh G.o.d, Mouse thinks, remembering. The car's been aired out some since this morning -- she had the front windows cracked through most of Montana -- but it still smells like a distillery.

The trooper shines his flashlight in Mouse's face, in her eyes. "Have you consumed any alcohol this evening, ma'am?" he asks.

"No," Mouse replies, hearing another nervous inhalation behind her. "No, I'm sorry, I know how it smells, but. . . no, I haven't been drinking." The trooper waits, still shining the light on her. "We. . . I was at a party last night," Mouse continues.

"You had a party in your car last night?"

"No!" says Mouse, her voice cracking a little now. "No, I was at a party, parked, and there was.

. . an accident. A bottle of vodka got spilled, and I just haven't had a chance to get it cleaned up. I, we, we've been driving all day."

"I see," the trooper says. He steps back from her door. "Could you get out of the car please, ma'am?"

"OK," Mouse says, and does. "I'm sorry, I know I was going pretty fast --"

"Yes ma'am, you were. Could you step over here to the back of your car, please?. . . That's fine, now what I'm going to ask you to do is hold your arm straight out from your shoulder like this, close your eyes, and touch your nose."

Mouse does as she's told. Finger on the tip of her nose, eyes still closed, she waits for the next instruction. But when the trooper speaks again, the words are not directed at her: "Sir!" he calls, his voice moving away from Mouse, "Sir, would you stay in the car, please? Sir!"

Mouse opens her eyes. In the back seat of the Buick, her anonymous pa.s.senger has panicked and wants to get out. But the trooper steps up to the car door and blocks it with his body. Mouse's pa.s.senger makes a frightened mewling sound and shoves hard against the door; the trooper, dropping his flashlight, shoves back. "Sir!" he says, his voice straining with the effort it takes to keep the door closed.

"I need you to stay in the car, sir!"

"Oh G.o.d," says Mouse. "Please, he's. . . he's claustrophobic! Please, don't --" She takes a step towards the car; the trooper draws his gun.

-- and all is quiet again. Mouse is back in the driver's seat. The Centurion is still parked on the road shoulder, but the patrol car is gone. The dashboard clock reads 7:48.

With a shaking hand, Mouse turns on the Centurion's inside lights. A speeding ticket is tucked into the sun visor; Mouse pulls it down, glances at it unseeingly, and sets it aside.

"Andrew?" she says, looking behind her. The back seat appears to be empty -- but then a head rises into view.

"Why are we stopped?" he asks. "Are we in Michigan yet?"

"Xavier?"

"I'm sorry, I must have fallen asleep." Xavier looks out the windows at the darkened landscape.

"Where are we? Is this Michigan?"

"N-no," says Mouse, heart hammering in her chest. "No, it's. . . we're about halfway there."

"Only halfway? Why are we stopped, then?"

"Uh. . . car trouble," Mouse tells him. "I, I think it's OK now, but I'm going to have to make a stop at a garage to get it checked. . ."

"Another stop?" Xavier says.

"It's OK, really," says Mouse. "We're making great time." She turns around and reaches for the ignition.

"Mouse," he says. "Don't."

Mouse stops, her hand on the ignition key. She feels like crying.

"Get out," he tells her. "I'm driving."

Mouse fights back the tears. "You can't," she says.

"No? You don't think so?"

"What if we get stopped by the police again?"

"I'm not going to drive like it's the Indy 500."

"What if we get stopped again anyway?" Mouse says. "Do you even have a driver's license?"

"Do I --" He pauses. Mouse hears him pull out his wallet and flip through it. "Ah-hah!" he cries triumphantly, but the cry cuts off too soon. "Wait," he says. "What year is this?"

"1997," says Mouse.

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit!. . ."

"So you don't have a driver's license," Mouse says. "And if we do get stopped again, especially with the car smelling like this, you'll probably be arrested."

"Fine," he says. He reaches for the door handle. "I'll just get out here, then, and --"

"We're in the middle of nowhere," Mouse reminds him. "It's getting cold out. You might freeze before you get another ride."