PROLOGUE

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You're driving down the desert road at night, your car humming quietly as it cruises down the dark highway. You look out of the front window, your hands steady on the wheel. Cactuses and boulders zoom past you in the darkness as your headlights illuminate the road ahead.

You stifle a yawn.

The stand-up comedian on the radio is keeping you company as she complains about something that you find entertaining. You glance down. The paper coffee cup is empty, seldom for the ring of the last few drops spread around the inside edge.

You stifle another yawn. You feel exhausted, but the coffee has been helping.

You push the button on the door to lower the window slightly to let in some cool night air. The wind hisses through the gap. You look at the back seat in the rear-view mirror. Your duffel bag sits on the back seat; a peculiar sort of travel companion with all you need to start a new life. A new ID. A stack of fifties. A new credit card. Some important documents.

You turn up the volume on the radio. You chuckle at the comedian's joke, your eyes steady on the road.

Steady on the road.

Steady... on the road.

Your eyelids start to feel heavy, but then you jerk yourself awake. You will not fall asleep. You will not.

A sign comes into view. THE CITY, 18 MILES / 29 KM.

I will make it, you tell yourself.

You focus your hearing to the comedy. The comic makes a funny remark and the audience laughs, but your hearing begins to dull as your eyes begin to get heavy again. You force them open. You lower the window a little more with frustrating desperation. The night time desert air is cool but dusty as it brushes your face and ripples through your hair.

‍I will not fall asleep, you say to yourself.

‍I will not fall asleep.

I will not... fall asleep.

Your vision blurs. Your eyelids slide down over your exhausted eyes. The comedian's voice begins to fade away. Drowsiness comforts you. Sleep relieves you. You relax. Your breathing calms as you drift off somewhere far, far away.

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