We turn onto the highway and pick up speed on the smooth pavement. The gangly driver unrolls his window halfway, leans forward, snakes a long arm out the crack, and scrapes at the water-beaded glass before his face with a dismembered windshield wiper. He reverses the process, guiding the window back up with help from his other hand to keep it in its track. Perhaps twenty seconds later, he repeats the performance. I quietly breathe the rhythm of a chuckle. The woman next to me smiles. The driver allows himself a wry acknowledgement, and soon all eight of us crammed in the front two rows are giggling.
And so, merrily we barrel down the winding road, thankful it is merely sprinkling.