Jenny cracked. About halfway through ordering poutine (my characters, like an army, travel on their stomachs: I can't get them to do anything unless I feed them) she looked up at me and said, essentially:
"All right, bitch. All right. I can see that you're going to write this damned book no matter how hard I dig my heels in.
"So write it. But I'm driving."
That's my Jenny.