Some remote dirt road near Sebastopol. Riding four deep in Alex Rinehart's P-1800: him, Kaila, Raina and I. We stop, a destination or a road block. A non-descript group approching the car. Police men. Now it's just Kaila and I in the car and she starts freaking out. She wants to escape. I try to tell her that we're fine. Not doing anything wrong. Even though she isn't in the driver's seat she manages to step hard on the gas and it sends the car up onto a steep shoulder and it flips over. As this happens, I'm surprised that it doesn't hurt at all.

Trapped. The enclosure starts feeling smaller than before, like a poorly designed space capsule or a tandem coffin. I'm considering which window to break. Thinking about the price of vintage auto glass. Suddenly I'm being sucked out of the car and find myself standing on the wet grass outside. Amongst a crowd of passive onlookers, we look down at the vehicle and marvel at how I was able to fit through such a small space. A little slot beneath the rear window. I feel proud, self-possessed, healthy. I wonder how she's going to get out.