“What happened to him?” Marcus asked.

“Why’s it so tall?” he asked, craning his neck.

“Sorry,” she said. “The suspension on this thing is shot. Sits even lower than stock.”

“You ever think about how weird this is?” she asked suddenly. “That every car has a different height, and we’ve all agreed to pretend this one window works for everyone?”

Now Marcus was nineteen, six-foot-three, and standing on the other side of that same window. He worked the 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. shift at a twenty-four-hour Burger Barn, and the drive-thru window was his portal to a strange, liminal America.

When the hearse rolled to the window, Marcus saw the driver was a woman about his age. She had silver rings on every finger and a tired, beautiful face. She also had to lean way down to see him.

The sports car with the college kid: window too high. The kid had to unbuckle and half-rise from his bucket seat, fumbling cash with his fingertips. “Sorry,” he kept saying, as if the architecture were his fault.