Being in his auto resembles being in a noisy, quick moving air pocket. He declines to open the windows. Rather, he presses a catch on the dashboard that anticipates air flow. The sound of the tires on black-top resembles somebody murmuring low and consistent into my ears. I battle the desire to cover them.

Olly says we're not going quick, but rather to me we're tearing through space. I've perused that travelers on fast prepares say that the world outside the prepare obscures from the speed. I know we're not going anyplace close to that quick. Yet at the same time, the scene moves too rapidly for my ease back eyes to clutch.