Kalene loves to drive. She loves driving in the summer during the afternoon. The highway is lined with trees and fields. She clicks her teeth together. All of the separate green colors seethe with the sunlight and wet air fermetting up between the squares of cement and in lashing vines down the telephone poles into a shimmering swamp of green and light brewing into molting shapes. Feathery spores blow down the highway, floating on the smell of honeysuckle and gasoline.

Kalene hears the sound her teeth make when she clicks them together. She feels like she is an audience for the leafy light along the highway. She is shy and it is only very recently that she can talk to two strangers in a room and breathe normally and say funny things. If a third stranger walks in, her breathing starts to fray. Three people are an audience. She clicks her teeth in a mysterious morse code. Outside, hiding in the dense green noon-tinted light, is God. Kalene clicks her teeth into a code that says she resents being an audience. She clicks her teeth into a code that says one day her breathing will never unravel no matter how many people are in the room and then she will say things to God and then he will become her audience.