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The raised interstate shoots past at a steady seventy miles an hour. I don’t dare take my eyes off the concrete. It’s August, and they still haven’t filled the potholes. It’s not like the Michigan state government deliberately tries to make Detroit uninhabitable; that’s just a side effect of loathing the city. But the streetlights nicely illuminate the way, and the vents are blowing delightfully icy bone-dry air straight at me. I shift my arms a little, and successfully direct a touch of the blast behind the chest plate of my foamed metal body armor. My hands are starting to cool, even inside the driving gloves.
Cool air in a Michigan August is a joy.
I hold our speed on the I-94 interchange ramp until I feel the little car’s wheels hint at slipping, then ease off.
Plunging from the
