The blinking red light brings eighty-five down to zero. Look to the left. Now the right. Turn down the stereo. The city, unlit, is nearly indistinguishable from the miles of highway leading up to it.
The deep new knocking of the engine failing falls in sync with the disappearing line of winking traffic lights ahead -- listening to something stranger, predicting, composing the staccato score of the last leg home. Shoes lay in the street soaking up rain. Roll down the window. Feel droplets of ice melt when they reach skin.
Press down slowly on the gas. Advance.
