He’s arrived at a dead end. No more light at the end of this road, where the asphalt forks into gloom and gravel. He squeezes the steering wheel, black-gloved fingers creaking, deliberating his decision for the thousandth time. Tired of the inner dialogues by now. Eager to move on. Lowers the window, the warm spring air spilling inside, mingling with the sweat and the scents of McDonald’s fries and the too much beer he’d had. He sits for a moment, watching the nighttime insects flutter to and fro, drawn to the car’s headlights. He has stopped the engine but left them on. Somehow it’s easier to concentrate with lights on. Also, he’s never been too fond of the dark. Ok, now. Where to go from here?
