My little brother (it's rough, not my brother...the writing)

"I don't care who you are or where you are from, this is fun!", he screams out the window yet at the same time he is talking to me, directly at me.
The red worn truck we are sitting inside of slips softly through the freshly fallen snow, effortlessly like a knife through butter. Silence envelopes us out here.
I can see the rotted past their prime and long forgotten corn husks sink beneath the truck's face and then quickly as if never there disapaear into it's anxious mouth. The machine gobbles them up as if it has not eaten in days, weeks even like a stranded sailor left for dead on an island in the pacific.
"Truck farming", I say not knowing if I mean as a question or a statement, a choice I have not actually made before saying it. I mildly expect and hope for an reaction from him, ideally laughter.
He provides it. A laughter so sweet and sincere I laugh right back at him before I can form a thought.
The ride continues on and so too do we.