by Jesemie's Evil Twin
Mulder plays with the map while she leans against the car and breathes in the intoxicating scent of fuel; he's unconvinced that the interstate will ever take them someplace they'd actually want to go. The car doors are closed. His poster-sized diagram of webbed roads rustles mutely, as though her outside world's wind blows it around soundlessly.
He was going to spend Thanksgiving alone again.
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