But it’s too damn late for breathing exercises.
The seesaw has tipped.
The silence begins pressing in on me.
I swallow, but the motion feels strange.
I inhale, but the air feels shallow and thin.
A wave of dizziness rolls through me.
I shift in my seat.
I shouldn’t be driving right now.
Especially not at a hundred and three kilometres an hour.
My stomach tightens, nausea rising slowly at the back of my throat.
My fingers begin to tingle, then start going numb.
I flex them against my thigh, trying to shake the feeling away.
But the sensation spreads.
No, please no.
Not here.
I can still remember the smell of cigarettes.
The shirt I’d stolen from dad.
Bruised. Terrified.
Running for my life.
I feel like running now.
The memory reignites without warning.
A truck door slamming shut.
The stench of dust and engine oil.
A kind voice asking if I’m alright.
His faded orange vest.
The pie inside the bag.
Jundah, ninety seven kilometres.
I’m going the wrong way.
I need to turn around.
My body is warning me.
