a million moths.

this morning the boy says “let’s go off-roading.” next thing you know we’re stuck on a giant slope in the angeles national forest without cell reception, flagging down passersby in the dry, afternoon heat. two kind armenians, one who said he once boxed muhammad ali, pick us up. they take us to a hamburger joint atop the mountain where a feisty, old waitress greets us with a lopsided wig and a big, red man sips from a tea cup. we eat grilled cheeses and then wind down the hill to watch the armenian yank the boy’s 4×4 off the cliff.