Nash
Route 7 North was a long, slow road between Rutberg and Burlington, most of it a straight narrow highway with rolling fields and quaint, picturesque farms on either side, broken by the occational small town, where the speed limit dropped to twenty-five miles per hour.
Since I had already earned myself one speeding ticket recently, I forced myself to ride the brakes and obey the limits. Especially when I spotted the state trouper sitting half-hidden in a pull-off beside the bridge.
Not today, you sneaky bastard.
According to the GPS on my phone, I still had a five-hour drive ahead of me. I rubbed my dry, gritty eyes and grunted at the gas gauge. I would have to make a stop soon, fill the tank, drain the lizard, and get a giant cup of coffee for the road. I couldn’t remember
