Ten minutes into the ride, the drizzle had developed into serious rain. Sal exited the highway and pulled to a motel.

Sal dropped his gear in a corner of their room. “You can have first shot in the bathroom.”

Tino walked into the bathroom and inspected the packet with the LSD. Still dry. Later, he pulled the covers over himself and sighed. The extra long and hard day tomorrow of chasing Sal to make up today’s lost time due to today’s rain would test Tino’s mettle.

He fell to sleep and had the dream; the dream that had been haunting him. He’s on his motorcycle, Rocinante. They’re speeding toward the cliff at the end of the world. Panicked Tino hits the brakes, but to no avail. He leans hard trying to steer away, but Rocinante holds steady. Tino tries to jump off, but he’s stuck to the seat. He drags his heels against the ground. They fly over the cliff to their certain deaths.

“Nooo!” Tino screamed.

“What the heck?” Sal yelled from inside the bathroom.

Tino sat up in his bed, heart pounding hard in his chest. “Harsh dream,” he said.

“Hash browns? Is that what you want?” Sal said. “If you want hash browns, you’ll have to wait. We need to get to it.”

Tino ignored the misunderstanding and lay still, steading himself. He rose and looked out the window-dark skies, steady rain. “It’s still coming down. We’ll get soaked if we try to ride.”

“I know,” Sal said. “I looked out a bit ago. There’s a dry cleaner across the street.”

“So?”

“Got an idea. Get ready.”

“Now what?” Tino said minutes later as they stood outside under an awning protecting them from the rain.

“Watch and learn.” Sal covered his head with his jacket and jogged through the rain to the cleaners.

Twenty minutes later they were pulling out of the motel parking lot wrapped neck to ankle in plastic sheeting for protecting laundered clothes, all held in place by dozens of rubber bands.

Rainwater ran off the plastic in tiny rivulets as they rode toward the highway. Sal had even told Tino to spread sheeting over his crotch and bike seat to keep his privates comfy.

Great, Tino thought, leave it to Sal to find a way to beat the elements.

The bits of sheeting between the rubber bands whipped in the wind. The sheeting vibrated on the highway at fifty miles an hour; at sixty it began shredding. Cold water began seeping onto Tino’s clothes and worked its way to his chest, arms and legs. He hoped that Sal would accept that his plan against the rain had a major flaw and would pull over at a gas station to dry off, but Sal charged sixty-five, seventy.

Tino got the sensation of floating and realized that his tires were hydroplaning on a thin skin of water. He eased off the accelerator and came back into contact with the road. The sheeting had been reduced to tiny bits of vibrating plastic. He was getting soaked. Rain worked its way around the face shield of his helmet and dribbled onto his face. The cold spread over him like an aggressive disease. Tino’s only consolation was that drivers couldn’t see him through his tinted face shield, but he still felt the fool.

Rain eased the farther they rode and by late morning the sun ruled the skies, even if the chilly air cut like a cold blade.

Sal took an off–ramp and pulled into a laundromat.

“You a sissy?” Tino said, teeth chattering. “I’m only soaked to my pinche calzones.”

Sal laughed. “You can change in the bathroom first.”

Tino stood next to a dryer and peeled off his jacket, sweatshirt, and T-shirt. The air warmed his shriveled skin. Sal stayed outside next to his bike, shirtless and fumbling for dry clothes tucked in his gear. A cold gust gave Sal a hard shiver. Tino shook his head, knowing that Sal had remained outside hoping to hide behind his bike so as not to offend the women doing laundry by exposing his bare chest. But his bike wasn’t hide squat. The women still had a clear shot at him through the window.

Tino entered the bathroom with his sleeping bag containing dry clothes. He took the packet with the LSD from his pocket and examined it to see if rain had dampened the paper. Lord, the hippie, had warned him to not let the LSD get wet, or it’d ‘lose its power.’ The packet was slightly moist to the touch. He unfolded it with care. The black flake sat in the center of the magazine paper and over a photo of a feathered serpent carved on an ancient Mexican temple.

If Tino was going to find out what the drug was about, he’d have to take it now but Rex’s warning echoed in his ear, “Don’t fuck with that shit. It’ll get the best of you.” Rex was talking about heroin. LSD was different, and what if the rain had sapped its strength? Then it wouldn’t matter.

Tino stared at what was either a small piece of innocuous film for taking pictures or a powerful mind-altering drug. He closed his eyes, raised his head, opened his mouth, and p-laced the flake on his tongue.

“Corpus Christi.”