We drive towards the full moon in a car of rusted metal and driftwood sides. Other vehicles flash by, pearly headlights. Ours have darkened to tainted orange. They are all headed West, we go East. We are Eastbound and the full moon draws us in. The car rattles, wind scratching at the rust, like fingernails on a scab. We will get there, this car has not failed us in all the years we have been driving. It did not fail us during the Blizzard, or the Bywind, not ever. We have the moon and we have the car and we are driving. And we are Eastbound.