CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tonya Birch yawned as the next road sign came into view:
I-86 12
Good. Next stop, her home state of Wyoming.
Montana was so damn boring. There was nothing to see, nothing to do, nothing but bare, dark expanses on either side of her. Even the music on the radio had gone from some cool, rockin’ nineties pop songs to stuff that even Lawrence Welk wouldn’t deign to play.
Her foot had gone numb and lazy on the gas pedal, and her speed had gradually decreased. Now she was only going fifty-five. She pressed on the gas and got herself back up to seventy. Twelve miles to I-86, then hang a right on I-25 toward Casper, and then another sixty miles beyond that, her hometown of Douglas.
Hallelujah.
She yawned, anticipating that blissful moment when she’d be able to collapse into
