I thought of the jar of red jam I’d kept from our trip to New York City. It was tucked in the back of my dorm-room dresser.
“Oh,” I said, nodding.
The wind came through like a voice gone quiet. It travelled the interior and wrapped us as one.
“You sure you’re okay with this? Driving me there and then driving back. It’s a long drive.”
Michael checked the clock on the dashboard. “We’re making good time. No traffic. Drive back’ll be quicker.”
“Yes,” I said, knowing he’d slowed down for me. I didn’t mind passing transport trucks, but I wasn’t one for speed.
“Wow,” he said. “Look at that.”
The sun hovered over a low-lying cornfield, a big fist of blood. “I wish you could’ve met her,” I said, my eyes fixed on the red.
“I know. But I am meeting her, right? She’s part of you.” He put his
