The man drove Chloe along Interstate 70 in a ’69 Chevy Impala with four doors and frost green paint. They’d seen the United Nations building (She’d liked the flags.); a giant timepiece (She hadn’t understood.); and the world’s largest ball of twine (She’d been bored.).
The highway shimmered in the heat. With the windows down, wind whipped Chloe’s hair into a gilded tangle. Slung over the frame, her pale arm burned.
At a gas station, while the man pumped, Chloe called from the passenger seat. She wanted an ice cream. Whatever kept his little cherub happy on the road.