thousand years. Or at least that's how it felt. My brother, Steven, drove slower than our Granna. I sat next to him in the passenger seat with my feet up on the dashboard. Meanwhile, my mother was passed out in the backseat. Even when she slept, she looked
alert, like at any second she could wake up and direct traffic.
"Go faster," I urged Steven, poking him in the shoulder. "Let's pass that kid on the bike."
Steven shrugged me off. "Never touch the driver," he said. "And take your dirty feet off my dashboard."
I wiggled my toes back and forth. They looked pretty clean to me. "It's not your dashboard. It