Free Holland Suggestions by John Dunning

surprising, considering how little sleep I had had in the past thirty-six hours. I didn’t worry about it, just pushed on in a half-blind stab at getting through it. Interstate highways are concentrated monotony, and they weave a hypnotic curtain around my brain. An interstate in California is the same as an interstate in Ohio; both are the same as an interstate in Missouri. Interstate 70 is, if anything, worse than average. The road stretches into infinity; the miles roll on and nothing ever changes. I pushed the car along at sixty-five and tried to keep my mind active. But soon I became aware of that dull sensation, that growing aggravation, that compelling urge to get off the interstate and find Route 50 again. I cannot explain how it began; one minute it was not there and the next minute it was. Dull, gnawing, not unlike my experience in West Virginia, only far less intense. It grew in intensity as I pushed on, and I fought against it with the logic that the interstate was my fastest link across a state that couldn’t possibly matter to me. Again, logic lost out. When I grew tired of the struggle I turned off the highway and stopped to consult my map.
    I was in a little town called Kingdom City, just off Interstate 70 and Route 54. I saw at once that Route 54 slashed southwest, joining 50 at Jefferson City. So I drove perhaps fifty miles out of my way, got on 50 again, and pushed westward toward Kansas City at a slower, easier pace. The road seemed to turn continuously after the smooth straightness of I-70, and I had to pass through a dozen small towns along the way. I found that irritating—a fine crash course in how to make a four-hour trip take six hours and more—but it was the lesser of the two evils. I was on Route 50 and that was what mattered.
    We were more than an hour out of Jefferson City when I felt the first wave of fatigue. I looked at my watch; ten past nine, and I wondered again what to do about accommodations. Amy was sleeping soundly. Her head had rolled to one side and her eyelids had opened slightly, but there was no question in my mind that she was in a deep sleep. She slept like she ate: passionately and intensely. I wondered if she did everything that way. Twice I hit deep chuckholes in the road and she never stirred. Once a trailer truck came roaring past with such force that the car shook. Amy never moved.
    I passed through Sedalia, a town with at least a dozen lighted motels, but I did not stop. With the lights behind me, the second wave of fatigue came, and I knew I could not go on. I looked for a spot where I might pull over and take a short nap, but there was nothing until I found a side road some twenty minutes later. The road was dirt, and it ran past several lighted farmhouses, dipped and turned for about four miles. There was a fork. The right fork looked to be an older road, little used and poorly maintained. I turned in there and parked under a large tree.
    A chill was in the air as I opened my door, got out, and looked around. I seemed to be in the middle of a large farm, with this fenced road cutting between two fields. There were no buildings or lights in sight. I walked down the road for a short distance and reassured myself that the car could not be seen unless someone came directly past us along this narrow, rutted road. I thought that was unlikely and, feeling better, I returned to the car, opened the trunk, took out two blankets, and tucked Amy in.
    It was just enough movement to chase away my fatigue and leave me, for a long time, sleepless. I have never been able to sleep well in a car, especially when I am sharing the seat with someone else. Amy was not in my way; she was curled up in a small ball in the corner, but her presence was disturbing. For a time I thought of the back seat, of perhaps stretching out full length with my feet dangling out of the open window. But I have never been able to sleep in back seats either. So I stretched out across the front as far as I