Page 34 of Joker

The road stretches on in front of us, endless and dark, the rhythm of the truck steady enough that my body is finally starting to believe we’re not about to slam into something. Lexi is still asleep in the backseat, Bunny tucked tight against her chest, her small breaths soft and even.

I glance back at her once, just to make sure. Then forward again.

“You drive like this a lot?” I ask, because the silence feels different now and I don’t want to fall back into the version of it that makes my nerves crawl.

Joker glances at me briefly, then back to the road. “Long stretches? Yeah.”

“For fun?”

“Sometimes.”

“That sounds…boring.”

His mouth shifts just slightly. “Depends who you’re trying to get away from or where you’re going.”

I huff a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh. “That feels like a loaded answer.”

“It’s not.”

“Feels like it.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Driving’s easy. Road’s predictable. People aren’t.”

That lands harder than I expect. I nod slowly. “That’s fair.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“Worst coffee you’ve ever had?” he asks.

The question is so random it throws me for a second. “What?”

“Gas station coffee,” he clarifies. “Worst one.”

I blink, then let out a small laugh. “Oh. That’s easy.”

“Yeah?”

“Middle of nowhere, Alabama. The kind of place where the lights flicker and you’re not entirely sure the coffee’s been changed since the Clinton administration.”

“That bad?”

“I took one sip and thought I might actually die.”

He snorts quietly. “You still drank it, though.”

“I was desperate.”

“That’s how they get you.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “What about you?”

“West Texas,” he says without hesitation. “Coffee tasted like burnt dirt and regret.”

“That’s…vivid.”

“It’s accurate.”

I laugh again, softer this time, but real. The sound feels strange in my own chest.