The pavement on the other side of town is in worse condition, forcing us to slow our progress. By the time I pull myself together enough to take real notice, Duet is scowling in fury, no longer singing along to the country music she's learned to love. The kids stay quiet, huddled in back as though aware she's dangerous from the mood she's in. I clutch at the door as we roll over a substantial heave, the sound of scraping metal on pavement enough to make me grind my teeth.
Duet pats the dashboard gently, soothing the truck as it rumbles and shudders. "Need better ground," she growls.
"Try the shoulder." I point at the side of the road, relatively clear if choked with weeds. She grunts and does so, though it's only marginally less bumpy.
We stop twice to get out and stretch, the kids wicking away into the brush to do their business while I stay close to the SUV and hope there aren't more like them out here. Or worse.