We ran out of gas ten miles from town, our rusty tin can of a car puttering to a stop on the dusty side of the road. The scene looked like some horrible movie stereotype. The horizon was made purely of reddish sand, dotted by a bush here and there. The road – just compacted dirt from road-trippers of the past – stretched on in either direction. With a sigh of exasperation, I looked over at Mark.

“You moron! I told you to fill up back there!” I cry, smacking him on the shoulder to emphasize my point.

“No, dude, that was your job! I got the snacks!” emphasizing his point by crunching down on a potato chip.

“I’m pretty sure that I was supposed to get the snacks…” I retort, glaring, my knuckles tight on the wheel so that I don’t hit him again.

“Chill out, man, I guess we’ll just have to walk and pick some up.” Shrug.

“Are you kidding? It’s like a million degrees out there!” I settle back in my seat, waiting for him to come up with a better idea – I’m certainly not going out in that wasteland.