Rerouting

“In two miles, continue on highway 59,” my phone intoned.

“How much longer until we get there?” I asked as I attempted to stretch in my car seat.

“Do you need a break?” my husband asked. “It's going to be a couple of hours before we get to Rusk.”

“I am kind of thirsty,” I admitted.

“Well, Lufkin is a big enough spot in the road that we should be able to find something to drink and a place to use the facilities,” my husband said.

Sure enough, we both spotted the fast food joint as he finished that sentence. As my husband parked the car, I took my phone off its charger and hushed the navigation program before heading into the restaurant. Ten minutes later, with empty bladders and full glasses, we returned to the car and assumed our seats once more. I plugged my phone back into its charger as my my husband started the car.

“I know we have to meet up with 69 somewhere,” my husband said, “but I don't think it's a direct route. Which road do we take to make that connection?”

“Rerouting,” my phone announced.

“Great,” I muttered. “It's lost again.”

My husband sighed. “Every time we stop to pee, that thing gets lost,” he complained. “Has it found itself yet?”

“Rerouting,” my phone answered.

“Give it a minute,” I said. “Remember how it did this in Goliad? It will be fine in no time.”

“Rerouting.”

“Just get back on the road and it will find us,” I said. “Remember how it did that at the San Jacinto Monument?”

“Getting new route,” my phone chirped proudly.

“See?” I beamed.

Word count: 290