CHAPTER 19 THE MEETING
My tyres clung to the edge of the narrow road, with the sea churning far below the cliffs. Brian's sighs punctuated every twist in the road – already three hours' worth of them and still two hours to go. I entertained a brief fantasy of the passenger door mysteriously opening on the next hairpin turn.
The NC500 might claim to be Scotland's Route 66, but America's famous highway never squeezed drivers between stone walls and cliff edges that turned knuckles white. The journey to mainland Britain's northern tip stretched endlessly, and Brian's dwindling supply of vegan snacks matched his evaporating patience.
"Surely we must be close now," Brian muttered, his thirteenth variation on the theme since our lunch stop. He slouched deeper into his seat, tapping his phone
