When Toby Keith stops singing, Dwight turns off the radio. At this hour of a Monday morning, I am always sound asleep after a weekend of dancing, not seated in a Ford Fiesta hurtling through the desert back to Vegas after that bizarre episode at Hoover Dam.
The relief I feel as we approach the streets of Boulder City and then Henderson is like the come down off a coke high when you know you’ve had way too much and you are wondering if your heart can take it.
As the adrenalin in my system wanes, fatigue sets in, the exhaustion hitting me in waves. My lips are cracking and sore, my teeth furry, and my tongue feels like it is swelling in my mouth from thirst. My thighs are sticky, and the smell coming up from down there is sickly and rank. Thanks to the concrete wall, my left cheek is abrad
