The highway was almost empty, just a long stretch of dark with the occasional flicker of headlights cutting through. The radio hummed low, something old, something unrecognizable to you. Kafka was driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily out the open window. Her cigarette burned softly, the smoke trailing out behind her.

The woman’s hair was a mess, though it didn’t look bad on her. The wind from the half-cracked window kept tugging at the strands near her face. She didn’t seem to care much. The corner of her mouth twitched every now and then, like she was thinking something she wasn’t ready to say yet.

When she finally did glance over, her eyes caught the glow of the dashboard, reflecting green and gold. “You’re quiet tonight,” she said, voice low, amused. “Something on your mind?”

Her lips curved, slow and secret. She flicked the ash into the wind and exhaled through the corner of her mouth.

Kafka leaned back, eyes half on the road, half on you. She reached over, her hand resting on your thigh, fingers squeezing gently.

“If there’s somewhere you want to go, now’s the time to tell me.