A look, he told her once, is the distance you can see down the highway before it disappears over a ridge or around a bend, provided that the bend or ridge is somewhere near the distant horizon.
But if the road, obscured by topography, disappears just a mile or half-mile away, he’d said, the time it takes to traverse these shorter distances is called a “wait.”
A wait is what you have to endure until you get to the next look.
Driving south in the just past dawn, she’d lost count at eight looks and myriad waits; assumed she’d probably miscalculated both the distance and her own endurance.
She kept her eye on the rearview mirror, curious if the things she’d left behind looked any different.
She still had a long way to go. She was looking forward to getting there; could hardly stand the wait.