We're fucking tourists. How can we possibly get a feel for the road without living it? We stop and see the roadside attractions. We go 40 miles out of our way just for complete frivolity.

And in the process we have to stop for the night in Salina. So, I'm feeling a bit bitchy, but Molly's happy. And I enjoy her smiles. Little bit of light in the bullshit.

We go to get some margaritas, winding down into our evening. Just pretty much enjoying each other on our tour across the west. Would you fucking believe there was a boy found dead in the restaurant we pick?

Dead. Fucking dead. Beat to shit by someone. A SIX YEAR old. Top this off there was no one in the restaurant to claim him. No one had ever even seen him. There was no trail in or out. Nothing. Like someone just appeared in the bathroom and a 6 year old materialized and got the ever lovin' shit beat out of him and the assailant disappeared. Some interplanetary ninja.

We get back to the hotel and I hold Molly for a while. She apologizes over and over again like she always does. Assuming that I'm mad or that it's her fault that people are fucked up. She finally drifts off and I watch television with her head on my chest. I see Gogol Bordello on Conan O'Brien. Turn it up just enough that I can make out the different instruments. I listen. I dig. Will buy some soon.

I feel something wet on my chest. Molly's drooling. Yeah. It's gross, but I don't mind. The drool's not so bad. And I know she's tired.

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