The hour is black and moist; if it weren’t for sunrise three hours hence, we would all drown. A single traveling car cleaves a night like this, sending the darkness adrift in a wake.

Gliding across the I-90 bridge at unseen speeds is a quick spree into myth: I’m on the long gentle arc of a race course that tunnels under some future city. The overhead lights, stark and dry, strobe to a drum-n-bass beat. There are no competitors, no time limit, and no need for quarters.

But that puerile fantasy is short-lived: darkness tumesces and the streetlamps strain to keep the weighty void from smashing down.

It starts to feel more like traveling up the river with Willard. After Issaquah, an unfinished overpass signals the limits of urban reach. Featured in the cadmium of high-powered spotlights, it’s a sensational warning against extraurban travel. Beyond it, if you dare, you will have to take your chances in the tenebrous forest and the furtive world of 18-wheelers:

The trucks line the shoulders, end-to-end running lights connecting them in a festive rail. But I imagine these beastly containers house the predatory, who, surely, lie in wait for unguarded nymphal scents. I whiz right by them, shielded by speed, wondering about the cargo they hold.