You Must Not Stop Driving

            We drove back on Highway 512 late that night, the Chevy’s engine grinding and the fishing poles rattling in the back. Our soaked clothing was piled in the back and we sat in the front seats in only our boxers, leaning forward behind the windshield wipers as the road took us into Tacoma’s yellow light. Yes, we had a fish. At the first red light, our chattering grins were replaced by a fit of shivering, and the horizon of signs and billboards was blinding. The rain was menacing now, transformed from a partner in our crime into a grim presence.