The mist paws at the glass, draws away, comes back kissing. I breathe onto the window and draw a smiley face for it to love. My breath grows heavy, the water collects and the smiley face eyes start crying. The mouth grows strings of beaded rain. The car heater rattles whenever we turn corners. Freeway exit ramps grate. Roundabouts are intolerable. We sit in the sort of sharded silence caused by too many teeth being grated, too many jaws held tensely, too much breath let out too fast. The indicator ticks dully. A truck shoots a wave of dirt and water past us and the lights of the highway turn to fat round flecks. The dark is coming quick now, and we are hurrying, scurrying across the big, flat Australian nothing.