“I hope this is the right road. It doesn’t even show up on GPS. It’s unworthy of global positioning.”
in narrowed peripherals, he’s watching daph lift cellphone uselessly in attempt to catch a signal in what was definitely dead air. not soon after the radio station had lulled itself into an angry static, graham had made some similar conclusions about this particular mission. the others are in varying piles of asleep in the back across furniture and bunks; as far as graham’s concerned, it’s their fault for assigning will daphne as his navigator.
grahams fingers tap agitatedly at the wheel of old winnebago, tilting head to squint down abandoned road. “jesus, it better be. we’ve been in the fuck-off backwoods for hours--” whether daph is listening or more interested in their satellite invisibility, graham continues; “--and if this piece of shit breaks down out here, who the hell’s gonna tow us?”
driver is visibly agitated as he gestures vaguely at the austere, horrifying little manor among the trees--coming up on their right. rv comes to a jolting stop (as several bodies jostle into one another in the back), and graham directs attention to the ugly fixture. “yeah, and by the way--that looks like shit, so if you think for one second i'm setting foot in that--”
