Back seat of the shit-brown Datsun pickup, squeezed in where groceries, chainsaws, or dogs should go, not children, tiny fingers wrapped tight around the steel rods holding the headrest upfront, glimpses of the road from either above a sister’s head too small in the front only a ponytail tied with hard plastic marble-sized fasteners, reaching above the back of the seat, or perhaps, I’d be bumping and weaving, a bobblehead