"I'm only going sixty-five," said Mr. Smith, readjusting his hands on the steering wheel and glancing at the speedometer, which read seventy-seven miles per hour.

"It's dark! Slow down!"

"I'm slowing down, I'm slowing down."

"Why don't you ever listen to me? You never listen to me!"

"Now I'm only going sixty," said Mr. Smith. Now the speedometer did read sixty-five.

"There's a knot in the pit of my stomach," said his wife, rubbing it and grimacing. "Right here. Why can't you show a little consideration?"

"He did slow down," said one of the children in the back seat. "Stop screaming. I can't hear my music."

"Turn it off," said his twelve-year-old sister. "Headphones destroy your hearing. Besides, your music is driving me nuts."

"And her screaming won't do both?" said the boy. "We should have stopped at a motel hours ago. I'm sick of this car."

"Let's play 'I'm going camping,'" said the teenaged girl who had been staring out of the driver's side rear window for forty-five minutes without speaking. "That ought to calm everyone down. I'm going camping, and I'm going to bring an angel-food cake."

"I'm going camping," said the twelve-year-old, "and I'm going to bring an angel-food cake and some bobby pins."

"I'm going camping," said the boy, half an hour later, "and I'm going to bring an angel-food cake, bobby pins, canned soup, dish soap, an elephant, a fishing pole, a green gate, a horse, an icebox, jelly beans, King Ahab, leftover lemonade, a monkey, a nickel, an ox, pickled pigs' feet, a quill pen, a rug, stamps, toilet paper, an umbrella, a violin, a xylophone, a yellow tablecloth, and---"

"You forgot the wishing well," said the girl in the middle seat, "and you added that yourself. You're out, Ben."

"I said wishing well," he said.

"No, you didn't," she insisted, "Did he, Mom?"

"Yes, I did," said the boy.

"You wish," said his sister.

"Let him try again," said Mrs. Smith.

"That spoils the game," said the girl. "I never want to play with him again! He's such a poor sport."

"And what are you, miss know-it-all?" said her brother, "Poor sport yourself."

"Next time we have to ride this far in a five-passenger vehicle, I'll sit on the roof," said the teenager by the window.

"Mom!" squealed the twelve-year-old, "he elbowed me!"

"She hit me," said the boy.

"Do I have to separate you two?" asked their father.

"You'd have to stop the car for that," said the teenager.

"Pull over, Jason, and we'll let Anna sit in the middle," said Mrs. Smith. Mr. Smith kept driving. "I said pull over!"

"I can't pull off the highway in the middle of nowhere when it's dark out. Do you want a wreck?"

"We'll have one anyway, at the speed you're going," she answered. "Slow down! Why don't you ever listen to me?"

"Mom!" said the twelve-year-old.

"Pull over!" said the mother.

"Give me some room!" said the boy.

"Why can't you all be quiet?" said the father.

The teenaged girl began to sing in an attempt to drown them out.

"Shut up, Anna," said the boy.

"I'd like to keep my sanity," said Anna.

"Not a sound for the next five minutes," said Mr. Smith, "or else."

"Or else what? You said yourself that you can't stop, and you can't do anything else unless you do stop," said the teenager.

"Do as I say," said her father, "or your mother will immediately take the batteries from every single flashlight, CD player, and whatever else is in this car that uses batteries."

"That's not fair," said the boy, "I'm the only one that's using a CD player."

"Besides, it would defeat the whole purpose," said the teenaged girl. "You want peace and quiet, you don't take away everybody's pacifiers."

"I'm not a baby," said the boy.

"Yes, you are," said the twelve-year-old.

"Nobody called anybody a baby," said the mother.

"Five minutes!" roared Mr. Smith, "Just be silent for five blessed minutes. Starting now."

"Jason, watch your mouth in front of the children," said Mrs. Smith.

"That means you, too!" said her husband, "I am this close to losing my temper." He held his thumb and index finger an inch apart and shook his hand in her face.

"You've already lost it," said the teenager.

"Quiet!" said Mr. Smith.

There was a smoldering silence in the vehicle for three and a half minutes.

"You really shouldn't get so angry, Jason," said Mrs. Smith. "It sets such a bad example."

"How come she can talk?" asked the twelve-year-old girl.

"Because I'm your mother," said Mrs. Smith.

"Can't you people count?" said Mr. Smith. "I said five minutes. Start over."

This time the silence was sour and stubborn and lasted a quarter of an hour. It was broken by the sound of rustling paper as the twelve-year-old threw a notebook at her brother.

"I've had enough of this!" she said. "I can't keep the flashlight or the pen steady in this stupid car, and I can't hold them both at once. Why'd we even come on this trip?"

"Why do you always have to write about how much you hate trips?" said Ben, grabbing his sister's flashlight and shining it on her notebook. "Oh, wait, this time it's about how much she hates us."

"Julie!" said Mrs. Smith. "You shouldn't write things like that. That's not even true."

"Want to bet?" said Julie. "I hate this car and I hate this family and I hate stupid brothers that read my notebook without permission."

"You threw it at me," said Ben.

"That doesn't mean you can read it!" said Julie, tearing it from his grasp and shoving it into the pocket behind the driver's seat. "And I hate riding in the middle and I hate everybody arguing and I hate being told what I can or can't write about in my own private notebook. And now my head hurts."

"That's what you get for yelling like that," said Ben.

"If you kids can't be quiet," began Mr. Smith.

Anna, looking out at the stars and the scattered trees, had begun to sing an old, sad song with a lot of verses. No one spoke for a moment, though Julie and Mr. Smith were both breathing louder than usual.

"I hate that song," Julie interrupted.

"You hate a lot of things," said Anna. "I like it."

"Sing something we all know," said Ben. He started a new song, loud and familiar and just a little overenthusiastic. "God bless America!" he shouted, and Anna joined him immediately. Finishing that song, they started another one.

"This little light of mine," they sang together, and their mother began to sing as well, off-key but cheerful.

"Let's sing that one again," said Mrs. Smith, and this time Mr. Smith joined them. He got even the easiest words wrong but was louder than anyone else.

Song after song echoed in the closed-in space as twelve-year-old Julie folded her arms and scrunched herself down in her seat. She finally propped her feet up on the front-seat armrest and pretended to go to sleep.

"Let's let Julie choose the next one," said Anna suddenly. "Come on, Julie. What's your favorite?"

"Joy to the World," said Julie.

"That's a Christmas song!" said Ben.

"So what?" said Julie, sliding back in her seat and unfolding her arms.

"We'll sing it," said Mrs. Smith.

"You lead, Julie," said Anna.

"Look!" said Ben, after a few more songs, "It's only fifteen miles."

"I can see lights," added Julie.

"Let's sing one more," said Anna, so they did.