You Are Going to See the Fungus
Finally you know what you must do.
Or semi-finally. You pass eighteen-wheel trucks on the two-lane road
to Crystal Falls where the fungus is. You pass them at some risk to
yourself, since it's dark and the snow is coming down like tv static
with the wind kicking it up. But you care less and less about your body.
Your brother is with you in the passenger seat, where he always is when
you are in the car, even when your dad drives, even when your mother
used to drive, though her vision wasn't so good at night and the dashed
lines would blur.