The stars wheel overhead, impossibly bright now that we’ve left the city’s burning halo behind. The Buick’s massive hood points east like a compass needle, eating up the dark miles. Someone has to break the heavy mythological mood, and finally Crosby does it with a laugh.

“Listen, we’ve got two thousand miles of road ahead of us. If we stay this serious the whole way, we’ll all turn to stone before Chicago.”

A sudden whoop from the back seat nearly sends Lynch swerving. John Belushi vaults between us, black suit and skinny tie, sunglasses at midnight, radiating that magnificent chaotic energy that could never be contained by anything as mundane as dimensional boundaries.

“Did somebody say Chicago?” He grins that immortal grin. “My kind of town! My kind of people!”

“John,” Lynch says dryly, “you’re not wearing pants.”

“Never needed ’em!” Belushi declares, then launches into “Sweet Home Chicago” at full volume, harmonica materializing in his hands.

“Brother! Still making an entrance, I see.” As if summoned by the lightening mood, Bill Murray materializes in the back seat on one side of me, wearing a rumpled tuxedo and holding what appears to be a glass of very expensive scotch. And on the other – that familiar sardonic presence, that spark of wit that always found the perfect moment to puncture pomposity with precisely-aimed sarcasm.

“Could this road trip BE any more apocalyptic?” The voice is warm, wry, deeply missed.

Murray raises his scotch glass. “Now there’s timing. You guys always this melodramatic?” he asks, taking a sip. “I mean, sure, Greek tragedy’s great and all, but have you considered the cosmic significance of Caddyshack?”

Lynch catches both their eyes in the rearview mirror and almost smiles. “The comedian and the deadpan master. Feels right.”

“Of course it would,” Murray agrees. “Who else knows how to navigate the space between profound and profoundly ridiculous? Besides,” he adds, “I know a thing or two about Chicago. Hey, when you’re chasing cosmic mysteries across America,” Murray says, “you need someone to keep it real.”

“And someone to keep it surreal,” comes the dry addition from my other side. “Plus, I hear the coffee’s better on this plane of existence.”

Belushi throws an arm around Murray’s shoulders. “Would you expect anything less? Come on, we’re on a mission from God here! This car needs more blues, more speed, and way more chaos.”

The Buick’s radio crackles to life unprompted, playing Ray Charles’ “Hit the Road Jack.” Crosby starts nodding along, and even Lynch’s shoulders relax a bit.

The Buick’s engine roars in agreement, and suddenly we’re doing ninety, the radio blasting Ray Charles, while Belushi conducts an invisible orchestra with his harmonica and Murray mixes cosmic cocktails from thin air. Even Lynch is grinning now, that weird energy that follows Belushi everywhere transforming our solemn quest into something wilder, funnier, but no less sacred.

“The thing about mysteries,” Belushi announces, hanging halfway out the window, “is they’re just cosmic comedy we haven’t gotten to the punchline of yet!”

The night highway unrolls before us like a ribbon of possibilities, and somehow the stars seem to be dancing to our rhythm now instead of the other way around.

The night is still deep with meaning, but now it feels less like a weight and more like a wave we’re riding. Sometimes the best way to chase a mystery is to let yourself laugh at it a little.