The sky is overcast when Clementine leaves the farmhouse. Gray, dark clouds hang low like a blanket as green pasture fields dotted with grazing cows blur past the rolled down windows of her old, beaten up car. The smell of distant rain reaches her out here, in what looks like the middle of nowhere, until sparse houses appear along the sides of the road. Then, eventually, shops start to pop up. The old gas station where she works, the supermarket— or, what this town calls a supermarket— Girty’s shop, the diner, the church. Wide streets turn narrow, and drivers stop for pedestrians crossing mid-street. Clementine is tapping her thumb against the wheel as she moves behind a truck going at a snail’s pace, glancing around for a parking space. Even with the windows opened, she feels suffocated. The discomfort of this grief is familiar; it settles around her like an old, dirty sweater. Dissociation already clouds her mind as the small crowd of cars and people surround the church.
With a jerk of the wheel, she dives into the first spot she sees. A woman is getting out of an old, long fucking car, but it leaves just enough space for Clementine to squeeze in. She half-expertly shimmies herself in between, taking a little longer than she’d like in a tighter fit that she’d like, but with one last micro acceleration, she’s perfectly snug between—
“Oh, fuck.” The crash— if you can even call it that— is barely audible, but she feels the impact a little more. Just a little. Clementine backs up immediately, and the car in front of her jerks forward. She knows, she can feel it in her bones, that it’s likely nothing but a tiny, little paint chip, but she still stares wide-eyed at the woman when she turns around. Clementine darts down and out of view, lowering herself into the seat. She doesn’t have a plan.
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