You can hold it, he thought, prowling around
the makeshift shanty chapel at the rest stop.
But the dog had already lifted a leg and wet
one corner of the Lord’s outbuilding. Oh well.
Guestbook and pew aside, the place stank
of someone’s scheme to shill the weary: small
donation box locked by the entrance. Pray
(and pay) for safe deliverance. Patience be
damned. He peed out back, in the wee
fenced-in yard. This was somewhere east
of Rapid City. It was a hundred and eight
and humid. When they got back in the car,
the air conditioner died for no reason. Nothing
but heat from the vents. The dogs were in
real danger now. She googled how to keep
a hot dog alive while he fumed. Hadn’t he
just paid for a new compressor? Hadn’t he
asked the mechanic to do what it takes to
ensure this didn’t happen? Now, here, east
of Reliance and west of Pukwana, the second
leg of their trip, with the sun frying his slight
grasp and baking the polite right out of him,
she said, “Get off at one of the next exits.
There’s a river. We can dip the dogs in and
wet a towel to cool them down.” Which
exit, he snapped (one was quickly approaching
as if the car drove of its own volition). She
recoiled. She couldn’t tell. He could barely
contain his contempt. It seemed like a simple
task. The map. Water. An exit. He loved her
and that wasn’t enough. He could ruin it all
right now; one word. He muted himself. The car
crested a hill and descended into the valley
of the Missouri River—the wide Missouri—
broad as a bible laid out page by page by page
as if to dry. Any exit, she said.