December 24, 2006. It’s almost dark and by a trick of the light a cat’s eyes flash and shine back at me from inside the car ahead. A pair of spike-ears spy over the back seat.
I drive straight roads across flat land on a 300-mile route home with a bag of catnip for three cats unknown to this one. We pass mile markers with urgency at 75 mph, but our cars and the other creatures of the road move among each other with slow gestures. White stripes dash under my tires, a quick-ticking metronome falling in and out of phase with the rhythm of the song.
The dark sky above glows blue and orange where it meets the dry road and the brown fields. The horizon’s frayed by hundreds of distant winter trees, thin sticks with brittle fingers.
The weed sits hidden among my packed clothes in the passenger seat, and with another flash of golden eyes I know the trick of light is coming from me. And I know what the headlights must look like from the back seat of that car. And all the slit red taillights on all the cars ahead of me become eyes.