Day One. The first day of beach vacation. We have been in the car for seven and a half hours. I am seeing double.

There is a 12-year-old girl in our backseat, steadily talking. She is blind, and she is our goddaughter. She is going to spend the weekend with us at the beach. And she has a lot to say.

The child has not paused to take a breath since we passed through Atlanta.

Many, many hours ago.

“…Why are there lines in the middle of the highway?” she asks happily. “Why does some cheese have holes in it but others don’t? Have you ever eaten a whole pumpkin? Why is it called Cracker Barrel when they don’t have crackers? Don’t you think it’s fun to drive? Who is Jimmy Carter…?”

Currently our vehicle is packed full of beach gear. We have so much vacation paraphernalia crammed into our van that we all have to take turns breathing so we don’t blow out the windows. There is an umbrella tip stabbing me in the rear.

Becca sits in the backseat of this crowded vehicle, nestled in a cove of stacked luggage, swinging her legs cheerfully, wearing a starfish barrette, conducting a one-woman monologue with nobody in particular.

“…What makes thunder? Is there a difference between hail and ice cubes? How many cups in a quart? Do you know how tall you are in centimeters? What is the square root of 298?”

“Becca?” I’ll periodically say toward the backseat, glancing into the rearview mirror. “Isn’t your voice getting tired?”

“No. Is yours?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s okay, I’ll just do the talking so you can rest your voice.”

And the streak of dialogue remains uninterrupted.

We have just crossed the state line into Florida. There are advertisements for discount liquors and lottery tickets, factory-farm oranges, alligator eyeballs, and other Native Floridian touristy wonders.

We pass a sign at a little roadside stand. We pull over because the sign is advertising “Bulled P-Nuts.”

Florida is my home state. I am about to introduce Becca to my favorite pastime of bulled p-nuts.

The guy serving peanuts wears overalls. He has a wad in his lower lip about the size of a regulation softball.

He is watching Becca as she tastes her first boiled peanut. Although, frankly, I’m surprised the child is able to eat the peanut while she is still talking.

“…Why is it called Florida? Are peanuts actually nuts or peas? Why are they called TV dinners when they don’t have TVs in them? What is an intestinal parasite? Did you ever answer me about Jimmy Carter?”

The man just looks at us and blinks.

Then, it’s back in the car. More driving. More backroads. We have a lot of driving left to do.

We spend the remainder of the trip listening to “Little House on the Prairie” episodes blaring on my iPhone at a volume loud enough to crack dental fillings. Becca holds the iPhone, and generously provides a running commentary for each episode.

Several hours down the road, she reaches a hand out and holds mine.

She pauses to take the first breath I’ve seen her take all day. Then she says:

“I just love our conversations.”

Four more hours to go.