“Rerouting,” Siri said for the third time.
“Honey, why don’t you just do what she says?”
Rick glared at his wife. “No. I’m not getting us lost because some nerd in Cupertino thinks he knows the backroads of Escambia County better than I do.”
“But we are lost,” Patti said.
“We are not lost.” Rick turned off the GPS. He had listened to the persistent droning of female voices since Nashville and was tired of it. At least he could put Siri in silent mode. “Once we drop Uncle Glenn in Brewton, it’s a straight shot to your sister’s house.” He pointed to the digital clock in the dash. “See? It’s not even midnight. We’re making great time. We just need to find some gas soon. That’s all.”
“What did the guy say about the van?” Patti asked.
“Something about the fuel injectors. It’s too much to fix right now.”
“Really? What about the money from the tax refund?”
“We used it all on the lawyer for you know who.” Rick nodded toward the backseat. “As long as we don’t run too low on gas, we’re fine.”
“Are we low?”
“We’re fine,” he repeated, trying to ignore the fuel light that glowed on his console. He pressed the radio’s seek button, hoping for Rush Limbaugh or Mark Levin. Finding neither, he settled for the Don…
