Driving isn't like surfing. It's an important distinction, the two are about as different as you can get, but the way they kind of white things out for a little while is similar. It's freedom, a focus that frees everything up, lets things settle in a way he can't get any other way. Road stretches out ahead of them, no destination in mind, and things uncoil somewhat. The contact helps too, not that he'll ever admit it, grounds in a way that always feels like he's touching something he was never meant to. So when Munson finally picks an exit he's not necessarily any more communicative, but he exudes less of a hostile vibe. Grunts his acknowledgment and follows the exit off the highway, navigating streets he doesn't know until he finds a motel. Something nicer than he would have picked on his own, but nothing too fancy. He cuts the engine after pulling into a spot, and relaxes back into his seat.

"You want to get the room, I'll hunt down something to eat?"