The secret to rock and roll resides in the nose hairs. Years ago, a veteran bassist taught us to pluck them in order to stay awake during all-night drives. I remind Josh of this, as the sign for the last Truckee exit glows green and white in the van’s headlights then disappears into the darkness.
Eli snores from the back seat, wedged between amps, instrument cases, and the world’s heaviest Hammond organ.
“Maybe we should stop,” I say.
“Too late,” Josh says. “We passed all our crash pads.”