the neon drift

the static on the radio didn't sound like noise anymore. it sounded like breathing, rhythmic and heavy against the dashboard.

the neon sign of a motel bled pink across the windshield. vacancy. of course there was. there always is when you need one.

room 4. the key was warm, like someone had been holding it for me.

the engine died without a sound, leaving only the smell of ozone and wet pavement.

the radio whispered my name, then my mother's, then a name i'd never told anyone.