Darla sat down behind the wheel and pulled her door shut with a heavy mechanical clunk.

She put the key in the ignition, but she didn’t turn it.

Instead she pulled her heavy black handbag back onto her lap and unzipped the side pocket.

She propped her thick elbows on the top of the steering wheel and held the bright screen six inches from her reading glasses.

I watched her right hand.

She steadied the top of the phone with her left thumb and typed with the tip of her right index finger, pressing one letter at a time with deliberate force.

“Do you want me to type whatever you’re writing, Darla?” I asked quietly from the passenger seat.