Gina drove without thinking. There was nothing for her to think about. Her hands on the wheel were heavy and numb. She kept her eyes on the road, not wanting to look at her dead hands.
Toward the end she missed an exit, staying on 287 past the Turnpike. She remembered vaguely what that meant. They would overshoot Manhattan and end up in Brooklyn, too far east.
It made a difference but Gina didn't really care. She kept on driving, taking anything that took them north, her dead hands steady on the wheel.
At the end she began to sing.