Vegas disappeared behind us along with the giddiness of the lunch, the shopping, the characters we’d assumed and we sank into and accepted the monotony of the road. The humming of the tires never changed frequency, the brightness of the sun never wavered, even Forego rarely raised his head from the backseat, where he’d been sleeping since leaving the casino.

Comfort was slowly settling between us; once you have inside jokes, you’re on your way to having your own language, your own shorthand. Once you have a shorthand, you feel you know someone, even if it’s only predicated on gimmick. We were a one-trick pony, but at least we had that one trick.