I point to the next one, an ad for Richie’s Discount Firearms Warehouse. “Am I the only one who is disturbed by the juxtaposition?”

“No, I’m there with you.”

“Good.”

It begins to drizzle. We roll up the windows, and instantly the cab is muggier than death and smells like swamp. Or maybe it’s muggier than a swamp and smells like death. Why won’t her parents just recharge the AC?

“So are we going to talk about what we’re not talking about, or what?” she asks.

“Which exit do I take?”

“I don’t know. You’ve got a long time.”

“I know,” I say, “I just want to know now so it doesn’t sneak up on me.”

She sighs and pulls out the directions her dad printed. “You don’t trust me.”

“Not really.”

“Exit 27B. So, can we talk about it now?”

“About what?”

“What do you think?”

I pause, unsure how long to keep being an idiot. “I don’t know—the global warming hoax?”

“Yeah, the global warming hoax,” she says.

“So you admit it’s a hoax! It’s always felt like propaganda masquerading as science to me.”

“Getting married.”

I stare at the horizon. It’s murky, the rain up ahead starting to blur the line between road and sky. “I’m not seeing the connection to global warming.”

“I don’t understand why you aren’t, like . . . I don’t know, freaking-out happy about this idea. It’s the only possible way for you to stay here.”

I give her a quick glance. She doesn’t look like she’s screwing with me. “You haven’t changed your mind?”

“No.”

Sweet relief. Elation seeps through me—elation and maybe a little bit of terror, but whatever, she hasn’t changed her mind. She must be insane, but she hasn’t changed her mind, and I’m suddenly fighting the bizarre impulse to pull over and either shake the crazy out of her or hug her. I press the gas pedal down a little farther instead.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” she demands. “It’s your parents. You don’t think they’ll agree to it.”

“That’s not it. And I only need one parent’s permission.”

“You sure?”

I shrug.

I spent the second half of last night—the half after Annie’s call destroyed any chance of sleep, possibly forever—reading everything I could find on immigration. My brain still aches from slogging through all the unintelligible legalese, and I’m not even sure of what I learned. I’m no lawyer, but I’m not an idiot either, and half of what I read contradicted the other half.

But info on marrying a minor in the state of Kentucky was much clearer. One parent. I only needed the consent of one parent.

Annie’s still staring at me. Apparently my shrug wasn’t convincing enough. “I’m sure.”

“Your mom?” she asks.

“Yeah. I should be able to guilt her into it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

I shake my head. “You. Obviously, you.”

Rain pinging on the roof fills the silence between us. I glance at Annie. She looks like she’s been kicked in the stomach, so I shift my eyes back to the road.

“Me?” she says. “What don’t you get about this? I’m not asking you to be in love with me, jerk!”

“I never said you were. I’m saying you’re the one who’s not going to marry me. You’ll back out because it’s ridiculous and probably illegal and in the end, you don’t actually have to do it. Right now you’re freaked about losing me, but you’ll get used to it. Once I go, you’ll see. Life will go on.” I swallow hard, embarrassed that I’m so worked up, that she may have heard the emotion in my voice.

“Wrong. I’m doing it. We’re doing it.”

“Annie, we both know you can’t disobey your parents.”

“I won’t be disobeying them—they won’t find out!”

I blink. I think she knows those two statements don’t actually relate to each other, so I’ll skip the morality lecture. “But you’re a terrible liar.”

“Only to you.”

I glance away from the road to her face again. She’s got that look—the I don’t care if it’s bad for me, I’m drinking the poison look. “Listen,” I say. “I know you think you can go through with it right now, but once it really sets in, you’ll freak out and change your mind, and that’ll kill me. That’ll kill us. I just can’t get excited about lifesaving measures that aren’t going to happen. Not now.”

“I’m not fragile,” Annie says, her voice hard, “and I’m not crazy. My parents won’t find out, but even if they do it won’t matter, because I’m eighteen and I’m tired of . . .” She can’t finish it. Guilt has her by the throat, but I know. She’s tired of scaring them, of living under the heap of all their fears. They can’t even see that she’s suffocating.

“Don’t you even want to stay?” she asks.

I grip the rubber on the wheel even tighter. I want it so bad, every inch of my body hurts. “Of course.”

“Then don’t just take it lying down. This isn’t fair. You belong here. You shouldn’t have to leave your home.”

I stare out the window straight ahead until my eyes burn from not blinking. “Since when do you buy into fair?”

“I don’t. I don’t even know why I said that. Forget fair and just let me help you. I’m not going to back out. I promise.”

I don’t look at her. Hope is a bad, bad, bad idea. Hope is a flame and I’m a synthetic wig—a cheap Halloween Elvis wig just waiting to catch, burn, and melt into a deadly fireball. If I believe her and she changes her mind, it’ll be a million times worse than if she’d never suggested it. Then I’ll hate her for it, and I’ll hate myself for believing her. “If you’re not sure, now is the time to say. It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Don’t talk yourself into it.”

“I’m not talking myself into it. It’s what I want to do, and I’m not going to back out.”

“I believe that you don’t think you’re going to back out, but—”

“Mo!”

“Annie.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously,” I say.

“Let’s get married.”

I take a huge breath and hold it. I’m tingling like my blood is carbonated, and even after I release the air, my whole body is still bubbling. “Okay. Let’s get married.”

She doesn’t squeal, but she’s not the squealing type. Instead she brings her clenched fists to her cheeks, holds them there, and whispers, “You’re staying.”

“Yeah,” I whisper back. “Why are we whispering? And where’s my ring?”

She laughs, drops her fists to her lap. “Your ring? Where’s my ring? And why aren’t you down on one knee?”

“Because I’m driving and because you’re the one who asked me. Everybody knows the asker supplies the jewelry.”

“Everybody knows? You just made that up—how would everybody know? The guy always buys the ring.”

“Money’s tight. How about Junior Mints and a Coke instead?”

“Deal,” she says. She can’t stop smiling. “Not the stuff you just bought me, though. I’m going to need more for the ride back.”

“Fine.” I stop trying not to smile and just give in to the idiot grin. None of this seems real.

“Actually make it a Cherry Coke, and switch the Junior Mints for Milk Duds. No, Whoppers. That’s my final: Cherry Coke and Whoppers.”

“Wait, but what are you bringing to the table?” I ask.

“What do you mean, like a dowry?”

“Yeah.”

She thinks for a moment, then leans forward and pats the dashboard affectionately. “The finest vehicle in Kentucky.”

I narrow my eyes. “Under normal circumstances there is no way a vehicle without AC would be considered an acceptable dowry, but since you’re also bringing an American passport to the table, I’ll overlook it.”

“So we have a deal,” she says.

“We have a deal.” I take my right hand off the steering wheel, spit in my palm, and hold it out. “Shake on it.”

The smile disappears, and she shrinks back toward the window. “Absolutely not.”

“Don’t be a wuss. Just spit in your hand and shake.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“It’s like signing a contract. We made a deal; now we swap spit.”

“It’s nothing like signing a contract.”

“There are other ways to swap spit. Do you want me to pull over so we can make out instead?”

She spits in her hand, takes mine, and shakes it firmly.

“Note to self,” I mutter. “Threatening to kiss the fiancée yields immediate submission to my will.”

“Ha,” she says, and wipes our spit on my shorts. “Gross. Turn off the wipers.”

Then I hear it: the strangled moan of rubber on dry glass. I didn’t even notice the rain stop, but it has. I turn off the wipers. Annie rolls down her window, so I do the same, and the wind roars in and fills my ears, clears my mind. For just this second, I’m flying. I’m staying.

I’m staying.

It’s hard to say who starts screaming first, but it’s one of those roller-coaster screams—high-pitched for her, closer to a yell for me—where exhilaration meets pure terror.

We scream until we’re hoarse; then I make Annie get out the directions again.

“We missed the exit,” she says, squinting at the piece of paper.

“That’s a surprise. Maybe if you hadn’t started screaming.” Normally I’d be annoyed, but I don’t actually care.

“You started the screaming. Why are you still smiling?” she asks. “This feels weird—not getting yelled at for screwing up the navigating.”

“Whatever.”

“Get off at this next exit.”

It takes us a while to find our way back, and traffic is bad so it takes even longer, but it isn’t until we pull into the parking lot destination that the grins fade.

It is not a furniture store.

Annie holds up the map. “I should’ve given this to you. I don’t even know where I screwed up.”