Finally you know what you must do. Or semi-finally. You pass eighteen-wheel trucks on the two-lane road to Crystal Falls where the fungus is. You pass them at some risk to yourself, since it's dark and the snow is coming down like tv static with the wind kicking it up. But you care less and less about your body. Your brother is with you in the passenger seat, where he always is when you are in the car, even when your dad drives, even when your mother used to drive, though her vision wasn't so good at night and the dashed lines would blur.
      Your brother's mouth is open but he's not snoring is not sleeping but watching the snow go by. It's like you're in a warm and minor world in the middle of the bigger world, rushing through it like a pipe.
      There are four cans of gasoline in the back of the car.
      You can hear the gas lapping at the sides of the cans. It's like you're on a boat.
      Your brother nods which means antenna which means radio which means he wants a song any song or just the static sound.
      Nothing comes in through all this weather.
      You wonder what you'll do when you get to the fungus.