Unnamed Journal Volume 3, Issue 2 - Page 42

Ulysses & the Fugitive - Ch. 6: Flight By Alfred Underhill Why did it always get so cold in the desert at night? Why was he wearing a t-shirt, again? Why wouldn't the car's soft-top come up? Why did he think it was a good idea to put it down in the first place? Ulysses asked himself these questions, peering at the desiccated landscaped whizzing by. He shivered and pulled at the cuffs of his fingerless leather gloves, like they could somehow stretch up his arms to cover them if he pulled hard enough. He shook his head, reached for the travel mug, and took a cold swallow of burned coffee. He let out a groan at the taste, which made Nehra stir. She was wrapped in both his hoodie and his blanket. Her eyes fluttered open to give him a quizzical look. Light sleeper, he thought. “Hey,” Ulysses said, “sorry about that. The coffee’s no good anymore. It’s not even warm.” He pointed to the mug. The swaddled waif snatched the cup from its resting place, took a sip, made a face, and muttered something. He still couldn’t place her accent. “Yeah, sorry, I was trying to tell you that it’s no good,” he said, still hoping to bridge the linguistic gap between them. Nehra just nodded absently and closed her eyes, curling back up in her seat. The security sticker in the corner of the windshield caught Ulysses's eye. Security, I could use some of that, he thought. He snorted. Yeah man, like you had so much security before you went to Burning Man, dropped acid, and found this lady. He sighed, and glanced at his sleeping passenger. Look dude, you chose to go with this. It’s too late to turn back now. See it through. Just see it through, man, he thought to himself. Ulysses read an approaching road sign. Only 50 more miles to California. Once they crossed over, they'd be on Route 6 for awhile until cutting over to 395. At least, those were the directions he’d come up with looking at the map. From what he could tell, he was supposed to take his passenger to some place near