Hey, it was late, okay? Way. And I'd just been working so hard, you know? It was like, what, the 10th or 11th day of camp or something, and I hadn't t seen Layla or the kids in forever.
So when Chaney tells me I ought to go home and watch my kids wake up, it sounds like a good idea, you know? He even says he'll take the morning meetings, and we all know how intolerable Ed is at that time of day, right? So good idea, Chaney, I say.
But I'm just so tired. And Orgeron's got his pallet of Red Bull locked in a freakin' vault somewhere, so what am I supposed to do but drive home in the dead of night in a fit of exhaustion and stupor with only the open windows and the periodic John L. Smith self-slaps to keep me fresh and alert for Life's Great Competition Against Fatigue. Because fatigue is evil. And wrong. And . . . and evil.
So yeah, I nodded off and drove into the ditch, right, but it was definitely, positively and without the faintest shadow of a whisper of a meager doubt all part of the plan. I mean, how do I know how the car is going to respond to running into stuff unless I run it into stuff? Am I right? Yeah, you bet I'm right.
But now Chaney's confiscated my car keys and given me this pillow and a pile of blankets. What? It is not pink; it's purple; don't call it pink when it's not pink but purple. It's purple. Which is better than pink.
Anyway, Dad says I sleep here now with Chaney's pretty pink pillow, so that sucks. But at least now I know that the car can handle it.