I wait outside the car, disappointed that he hasn't opened the door for me yet. I glance at the interior of the car and see various random objects on my seat. I hear the click and lift the lever. I have a strong desire to hurl the camera in the back seat and rip the maps in half, but instead I move all the objects resting on my seat to the back.

We pull onto the road, and my temper subsides. All is peaceful and sedate in the Wyoming countryside. A beat-up, rust-encased truck pulls off without a signal, and a low-riding Buick speeds by on a double yellow line. An explosion from the person across from me occurs; my own impatience flares at the unneeded and angry outburst.

He reaches down beside his seat and finds what he is looking for. I can sense the rustle of plastic and even more annoyingly the sticky aroma of warm raisins. My own anger escalates with the sound of his chewing. I try to chew my gum loudly, just like my mother hates, hoping to drown out the clearing and moistening of the throat and the bad country.

I try to read, to shut my ears, but the noise seeps in. The continuation of minuscule things makes my irritability match his. My seat becomes uncomfortable and altogether too hot. I try to hold it all in and not explode at a cough. I drop the book because I'm tired of concentrating past distractions to grasp the general ideas of what is in front of my eyes. So I try to sleep and forget my idiotic impatience which will most likely return as soon as I awaken. c