Interstate 8 is a most desolate road, especially with dusk fast approaching and most of the truck drivers either routing through Phoenix or pulling off the road for a few hours of sleep. It’s a road for thinkers, for long drives between homes when thoughts turn to crossroads, real and imagined.

It’s a good place to go fast. Except for us, for we were driving the Beast, and the Beast eats money, so we kept it sane and safe. With little more than a half tank used, the next gas station a few hundred miles away and my friend asleep in the passenger seat, I made a quick calculation: the fuel range says 268 miles, the signs say 224. I can make it, if I lay off the gas and stay steady.

Hah. An hour later, it was dark and the needle had dropped like a stone. The difference between miles and range was closing fast; I put the Beast on cruise control and checked to see if my cell phone had service.

A little while later, the mile markers were mocking the fuel range, and I could feel the sweat bead up on my lip. It was still close, though, and I was determined to make it as far as I could on one tank. Calexico came, and I saw a gas station fly by. We traded city lights and call boxes for darkness and border barbwire. The sweat begin to trickle down my spine.

We weren’t going to make it, and I had to make emergency plans. I could feed Rafael to the creatures of the night, and it would give me enough time to run back to Calexico. He’d fight for awhile, and maybe they’d lose my scent. I told him to go back to sleep; offered to listen to Tainted Love again; but he had leaned over and had seen the fuel gauge, and he started whining. Then I saw the sign: gas in 20 miles. Surely the Beast could go 20 miles, surely there were two gallons left in the tank that would take us those 20 miles. I felt strong about it; this was a smartly-engineered car, after all, and it had that cylinder deactivation magic – even though the magic had yet to work. Now it would. Surely, it would. I slowed down, and coasted, and saw “V4 mode” flash on the readout. We were getting 34 miles per gallon. So what if we were coasting at 25 mph along I-8. The beeping had started, the incessant and irritating beeping telling me, that yes, I was going to run out of gas soon, very soon, that I was a moron and that my friend wasn’t strong enough to push the Beast five more measly miles.

I heard a quiet whimper. I started to pray.
Later, at the gas station, we agreed that it was probably best for me not to let the tank drain down to E again.