Paper Towns — Chapter no 45

A thin stand of oak trees obscures the cornfields that stretch out to the

horizon. The landscape changes, but nothing else. Big interstates like this

one make the country into a single place: McDonald’s, BP, Wendy’s. I know

I should probably hate that about interstates and yearn for the halcyon days

of yore, back when you could be drenched in local color at every turn— but

whatever. I like this. I like the consistency. I like that I can drive fifteen

hours from home without the world changing too much. Lacey double-belts

me down in the wayback. “You need the rest,” she says. “You’ve been

through a lot.” It’s amazing that no one has yet blamed me for not being

more proactive in the battle against the cow.

As I trail off, I hear them making one another laugh—not the words

exactly, but the cadence, the rising and falling pitches of banter. I like just

listening, just loafing on the grass. And I decide that if we get there on time

but don’t find her, that’s what we’ll do: we’ll drive around the Catskills and

find a place to sit around and hang out, loafing on the grass, talking, telling

jokes. Maybe the sure knowledge that she is alive makes all of that possible

again—even if I never see proof of it. I can almost imagine a happiness

without her, the ability to let her go, to feel our roots are connected even if I

never see that leaf of grass again.

Hour Sixteen

I sleep.

Hour Seventeen