Lex, please!” she hisses, swatting my hand away from the radio dials, turning the windshield wipers back off, undoing every bit of defiance I could flail at from my seated position.

“Sir,” she pleads, “You’ll have to forgive her. Riley clarifies her whispering with air-quotes, “My friend is ’not feeling well.‘”

Thoroughly confused and exhausted, he opts to raise the gate, shoo us toward the entrance and return to tending to his facial hair away from us silly young people.