Some type of campground. It seems like summertime since the sun is out, but how could I possibly know the difference. Makeshift tents are propped up all around me, and luggage upon luggage is stacked like a pile of books to burn. There are many piles.

The only other person is Tomas, a middle-aged Chicano that I work with from a different department. We are talking about cocaine and I have no idea why. Who to get it from, how to conceal it, whatever. It’s time to leave so I get in my car and make my way. 

I get behind the wheel and that’s the extent of my control. The windshield is my lookout, a front-row seat to the movie that is playing in front of me. The car goes in circles until the luggage is unavoidable, so I slam on the brakes and brace for impact. I can’t stop.

I start at least one fire, maybe two. My car is beaten up all around and the trunk is popped open. I exit the car and look around to see who saw, or if Tomas is still there. No one in sight. I think to myself for a hot second if now would be the time to call somebody, or if I should just get back in my car and try to make a run for it. 

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