In the Land of the Lawn Weenies by David Lubar Page A

ent spotted a license plate from Alabama. “That makes forty-nine,” he said to no one in particular. He’d seen plates from every state except Hawaii.
    â€œThat’s nice, dear,” his mom said from the front seat.
    Now what? He looked around, trying to find something to help with the numbing boredom of riding in the backseat on a long family trip. A sign on the side of the road told him they were on STATE HIGHWAY 50 WEST. The information didn’t mean anything to Kent. The road numbers were hard to keep track of. That was something for parents to worry about.
    â€œWill we be there soon?” Kent asked.
    â€œNot much longer,” his dad said.

    Kent sorted through the magazines strewn across the seat next to him. He was sure he’d read them all. How long had they been driving today? He couldn’t even remember what time they had started. It seemed like days ago.
    He picked up one of the magazines and thumbed through the worn pages, looking for anything he hadn’t read yet. No luck. He tried another. Finally, in the third magazine, he found a page of ads he’d skipped before. That held him for a few minutes.
    â€œMom, I’m bored,” Kent said when he finished reading.
    â€œWhy don’t you see if you can find a license plate from every state,” she suggested.
    â€œI just did that.”
    â€œHow about something that starts with each letter of the alphabet? Look for something that begins with ‘a,’ then with ‘b,’ and so on. That should help you pass the time for a while.”
    â€œOkay.” Kent glanced out the window to his left. There were plenty of automobiles in sight. That took care of “a.” A car passed them in the fast lane. There were two kids in the backseat. A boy a couple years younger than Kent was staring out the side window, his eyes filled with emptiness. Kent looked back. The car sped past them.
    â€œB” for “boy,” he realized. And “c” for car.
    On the right, a sign read: ALTERNATE ROUTE 37. It meant no more to Kent than any of the other signs. He looked around for something that started with “d.”
    By the time he reached the letter “m,” Kent had
grown tired of the game. According to the sign up ahead, they were on an interstate highway now. He felt that he’d been traveling forever. “Dad, will we be there soon?”
    â€œPretty soon, now,” his dad said.
    â€œHow long?” he asked. “I mean, in minutes. How many minutes?”
    â€œDon’t bother your father while he’s driving,” his mom said.
    â€œBut …” Kent let it drop. He leaned forward and looked at the dashboard. The clock needed to be set. It just kept flashing 12:00, over and over, never changing.
    He tried to think back to the beginning of the day. He remembered spotting license plates. He remembered doing something before that. What was it? The game. That was it. He’d been playing a handheld video game. But the batteries had died. And before that … ? Kent couldn’t remember.
    He couldn’t remember the last time they had stopped to eat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone to the bathroom. But he wasn’t hungry. And he didn’t have to go.
    Where are we headed? He couldn’t even remember that. He realized he didn’t even know if they were going somewhere or coming back. He tried to think of other trips. There’d been trips every year. There’d been short trips when they’d just driven a few miles to visit some friend of his parents. There’d been longer trips when they went on vacation. Each year, it seemed to take a
bit longer. They traveled a bit farther. They spent a bit more time in the car.
    How long had they been on this road? Kent looked at the passing signs, hoping for any hint of his location. There was nothing on the road ahead. “Where are we?” he asked.
    â€œGetting