Heat-seekers

In the back of the man’s car on the way to the service station I say for the third or fourth time, Hey this is super nice of you! and Mom says, Shhh! and I say, What did I say? and she says, Shit, as if we’ve gone the wrong way, or maybe it’s just how I hear it because the driver’s face in the rearview mirror doesn’t seem to blame her for cussing, and I look at the leathery back of his neck, thinking, I’ll bet this guy’s stepped on some rattlesnakes in his time, there must be some scary stories he could tell Mom and me if he wanted to, and I remember watching a documentary about how snakes become heat-seekers in autumn when the desert cotton turns red, and can fiddle themselves into sleeping bags on cold desert nights, and I imagine how angry my boyfriend will get when I tell him that Mom and I needed to hitchhike to a gas station after our rental car broke down because even in September it was 100 degrees in the shade and the roads were like quiet deaths and how he will harp on old stories about hitchhiking dangers when most of it isn't true, and Mom, licking her lips, whispers, For the love of God we've been driving for forty-five minutes, and she grabs my knee as if it's going somewhere and now I feel like we are sitting on something hard that is not a regular car seat, can feel a jolt of metal in the core of my hips, Mom is wearing a burnt smile on her mouth, and when the man finally rattles his voice, says, “Ladies, I’m kinda sad that you didn’t know where that gas station was, because I don’t think we’re rolling in right direction,” I go quiet as if carefully unzipping my sleeping bag, and I squeeze Mom’s hand to keep it still.