The headlamp of Lisa’s bike creates the roadway in front of her from the fabric of the prarie’s night. I she switched it off—if she could switch it off—the smoothed river of tarmac would vanish. Sun-cracked soil and cactus would appear and she’d have to throttle down. For now she’ll keep it on and stretch the Texas state highway into New Mexico.
No thing interupts her involvement with the warm night. No glass provides shielding from the wind. No metal barracades her from harm. No phone transports her back across the world to a London flat.