Orange street lamps blink past overhead. Despite Waylon's shut eyes, he nods to the steady flashes of hazy, dim light beyond his eyelids. It lulls him into a meditative state as he replays his parking-garage briefing. From plan to back- up plan; from building blueprint to machine schematic.

Ronan — of course — interrupts him: the hulking man behind the steering wheel glances at Waylon out of the corner of his eyes. "Apologies for earlier."

Waylon's head lists to the side and lands on the passenger-side window with a soft thump. It's cold: freezing and burning against his scalp even through his dense, black hair. He rolls his eyes open. "How about you apologize by staying quite and letting me think?"

The shadowy reflection of Ronan in the window shrugs a shoulder. "I could, you're right. Wouldn't that let bad feelings fester though? I've read this on one of the internet pages and it said communication is important! Learning about each other is the fastest way to developing mutual respect! In fact, when I was just a sprout—"

Invisible wires tension around Waylon eyes, like the strings of an over-tuned violin. "I don't need to hear about your childhood."

"Are you sure? It's quite an interesting story: I'm sure we could bond over it!"

Waylon lugs his head back up and glares at Ronan. "I'm sure."

"How about we just chat then? You went over the plan, the back-up plan, and the back-up's back-up plan for hours. Surely it can't help to stew over even more?"

Tensioned wires relax; creases in Waylon's forehead disappear. It's true, he could use the distraction. "Fine." He says.

Ronan's entire demeanor changes: his butt wiggles in his seat, his hands cling to the steering wheel, and his eyes glint with a new, fiery hint of anticipation. "Yes! Okay, okay. So, why are you doing this?"

"What do you mean by—"

The brute bounces in his seat like an impatient toddler. "Oh! Apologies. I practiced this so much and I still screwed up the first question. Let me think..."

Waylon picks at the inside of his cheek with his teeth. I knew I should have cut him off before he started. At least he's keeping his eyes on the road, I guess.

"Why aren't you doing something else to make money? Is a healer really so expensive that you can't make enough at your usual job?" Ronan says.

"I don't have a usual job. Haven't for a long time."

"Why not? What'd you use to do?"

Waylon's gaze drifts to the truck's side mirror. Inside the reflection, street lamps race into the distance and disappear. "My husband and I agreed that I'd stay home. He always made more than I did anyways." He says. "Never got to bartend for the fancy places, only dive bars and their stingy drunks."

"I haven't talked to a bartender before! What's it like? I bet you learnt about all kinds of people!"

"Not really. It's mostly depressed men that don't know a better way to handle their problems."

"Interesting." Ronan's voice trails off, lost somewhere amid his thoughts. A few silent moments later and he zips back into the present with a shiver. "Apologies, I was trying to relate. I don't think I can."

Waylon's arms tighten across his chest. "Then you're lucky: why are you even here to begin with? To mock the rest of us with your faux interest while we do the hard work?"

"Never! I promise that I am interested and each question I ask is genuine. My goal above all else is to learn: about this city and all its moving parts; about you; about the strange world of fish! Never really cared much for them before, but this job piqued my interest. Did you know that small-eyed gobies can change—"

"You can stop. I get it."

Ronan jerks his head to face Waylon, eyes wide. "You do?"

"No, not—"

Before Waylon can finish, Ronan's lapse in focus sends the box truck hurtling over a speed bump and into the air. Waylon's stomach lurches. Without thinking, he slaps his hands onto his armrests and braces for the fall.

Crash. Windows vibrate, the floor shudders, then everything returns to normal.

Waylon exhales in a long, low breath. "Can you please keep your eyes on the road?"

"Yes! My bad, apologies. I hope the two in the back are alright, the truck people told me the suspension for the trailer needs repaired. Trucks like this use air instead of springs, did you know that? See, it's all about the weight. Normal steel springs —"

Ronan's voice slips into the background and Waylon starts counting the passing lamps. I really should have kept quite.

Some fun-fact-filled time later, Ronan's cadence changes and his words force their way back into Waylon's ears. "Back to what we were talking about. I don't want to bring up your mother-in-law, but can your husband not make enough for all three of you?"

Waylon bounces a fist on the door's armrest. "No. He's gone."

Ronan's brow furrows. "Where to?"

Pain blossoms in Waylon's temple: he plants his bouncing fist against the plastic. "Gone."

"I heard you: is he coming back?"

The earnest nature of Ronan's tone sweeps Waylon's would-be anger off its feet. "Seriously? What are you getting at? He's passed. Dead. Gone."

Ronan panics. His head darts between Waylon and the road. "Apologies! I didn't know!"

At that instant, the truck careens over another speed bump and into the air. It crashes back down in a shuddering of metal and bones. Ronan straightens up against his chair's backrest. "Ah-hem. Apologies. Eyes on the road, you were right."

Silence stretches between them. Long enough to make Waylon think that Ronan's finally done. Finally. He lets his vision blur and his mind go quite. Road reflectors flash white and orange in the truck's high beams, then wink out. One after another, forever doomed to darkness — at least until the next car passes. An hour or two, maybe.

The peace breaks at the sound of Ronan clearing his throat. "Do you know about the cycle?" He says.

Exhaustion tugs at Waylon's mind; he doesn't move or refocus his eyes. "The cycle of what? The moon?"

"It's the seasons. Plants shift, some die completely, and others are born from what came before. There's more to it. That's the easiest part to see though: the easiest part to feel over such a short time." Ronan wrings his palms around the steering wheel. "It's constant. I'm not sure when I started feeling it, but I know it'll all come to a stop one day. Then maybe parts of us will turn into something even better — or nothing at all. Am I making sense?"

"Strangely, but I think I'd have preferred it if you said sorry in the normal way. Minus the existential crisis nonsense."