As the little blue Hyundai drove along Route 75, Abby stared out the backseat window, lost in her thoughts. The rural countryside wasn’t much to look at; even though they traveled on the Fourth of July, there were almost no other cars or trucks the highway. Occasionally they passed a field of placid cattle or an empty gas station. Earlier in the morning Dad had tried to start a game of I Spy, but despite his best efforts the family eventually had to give it up, and now the outside world seemed almost sterile in the midday sun’s pale burning brilliance. The complete lack of shadows created the illusion of an unnaturally stilted, two-dimensional landscape, like that of an amateur’s painting without proper dimensions, and the unceasing drone of the vehicle canceled out most sounds, conversations, and thoughts. 

“Well Abby, you ready to go to Iowa?” asked Dad for the third time. Abby stared at the bland pastel sky, the gray concrete, the empty flatness. The young girl did not hear the question, and so did not respond. 

“Uh, hello? Hellooo?” Dad repeated, bored. He scrolled through LinkedIn. “We’re going to Iowa. Aren’t we? Mom, when’re we getting to Iowa?”

“You tell me,” Mom responded, not taking her eyes from the road. “You’re the one with the map. I’m driving, you’re navigating.” 

“What am I doing?” Abby quietly asked. She had stopped looking out of her window. There was a pause as the two parents glanced at each other and struggled to come up with an answer.

“Well, sweetheart, you’re a—you’re the—you’re—” Dad stumbled over his words until Mom grabbed his iPhone, turned around in her seat, handed the device to Abby, and quickly went back to driving.

“Here, you can be our DJ,” said Mom. She readjusted her grip on the steering wheel, bit her lip.

Dad examined his now empty hand with narrowed eyes.

“How am I supposed to navigate without the GPS, honey?” asked Dad, lightly irritated. “Our map is on the phone.”

“I don’t know—use a paper map, old-school,” snapped Mom. Her gaze never left the road. Abby clutched the phone close to her chest, her eyes darting back and forth between her parents. The sour aftertaste of beef jerky burned on the back of her tongue. She wanted a drink of water, but she couldn’t remember where she had left her bottle. In the trunk, with the masks and sanitizer? Beneath the luggage? At home? She shook her head, overwhelmed. Of course she couldn’t remember, she thought. She always forgot—always…

Abby tried to open the phone, then realized she didn’t know the passcode. 

“What’s the passcode?” she asked. 

“6748,” said Mom. Dad frowned and pursed his lips.

“How do you know my passcode, honey?” His interrogation was soft, yet there was a pressure behind his quietness. It was the sort of hush that demands attention; the sort of whisper that requires a response. 

Mom yawned silently and elegantly, revealing her straight white teeth. She had been driving for hours without rest, but showed few signs of weariness other than the infrequent yawn. 

“Well, you know. I sort of needed the information. It’s not like I’m spying on you, or anything, Don. But we’re partners, aren’t we? Why keep secrets,” she said casually. 

“Nothing’s secret, honey. It’s just a matter of… privacy,” he mumbled. He sighed and looked sideways at her, his eyes lackluster. “I don’t know your passcode,” he said quietly.

“It’s 3964,” she answered. A handful of empty moments lingered in the air. Abby silently opened the phone and then the music app. 

“What should I play?” the girl asked after a few minutes of scrolling, uninterested, through the recommended chart-toppers. 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” said Dad, as Mom said at the same time, “How about Blondie?”

Again the car went quiet. Dad coughed, and smiled at Abby through the rear-view mirror. 

“How about some Blondie?” he said, his eyes on his daughter. Both father and daughter had the same eyes—a sort of bitter, dark-chocolate shade. She nodded slightly, and typed blondy into the search bar. Nothing came up except for a male rapper with a dozen monthly listeners, and her heart skipped a beat. She went back to the search bar and replaced blondy with Blondy, but the same result appeared. 

“Hey Abby, what’s taking so long?” complained Mom. 

“Give her a second,” said Dad, gritting his teeth. 

“Okay, okay,” she muttered. “Take your time, sweetie.”

Abby exhaled, racking her brain. She decided to change tactics. Since nothing was coming up for Blondy, she typed in “Heart of Glass.” The first result was “Heart of Glass” by Blondie. Realizing her spelling error, Abby inwardly cursed herself as she pressed play. The rhythmic disco beat began immediately, and the plaintive voice of Debbie Harry filled their ears. 

Out of nowhere, Dad swore loudly. 

“Turn off the music, Abby,” Dad said sharply. Mom huffed.

“What the hell, Don?” she demanded. Dad crossed his arms and stared at his wife.

“We were going to play this at the family reunion… weren’t we?” said Dad. 

For a brief moment, as fleeting as filtered light penetrating a clouded sky, Mom’s lips formed a delicate smile.

“Yes,” said Mom. “My mother chose this song. She loved Blondie.” 

“Then why play it… now?” he demanded. “On the way to her—her funeral?”

“Because she loved it,” said Mom simply. “If she couldn’t celebrate her seventy-second Independence Day… she would’ve wanted us to celebrate it without her. She was just that sort of person.”

Never once did she look at him—never once did her eyes leave the road. Dad shook his head, rubbed his eyes.

“God, honey… I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry—”

“Don’t be,” said Mom. She sighed deeply. Heavily. Exhaustedly. “We’re all stressed right now.”

In the backseat, Abby stared out the window. “Picture This” automatically began to play. 

She had forgotten to turn off the music.