001
[No, this isn't right.
There was a dirt road, a branch that decided it was gonna make a home in his undercarriage. He remembers it; remembers swerving when he should've hit the brakes. He remembers the dust slamming into his open driver's-side window, he remembers thinking it was a shite time to decide on a smoke.
Adam remembers what he ate for breakfast that morning--nothing at all--and he remembers thinking that North Carolina was where people went to die. Because there was nothing there, and maybe that was what he needed. He remembers deciding he was gonna try some bathtub whiskey before he left, and he remembers the arse on the pretty brunette thing that brought him his last tasteless American beer the night before.
He doesn't remember falling asleep. And he doesn't remember waking up.]
Fuck me, [he mutters against the upturned collar of his coat, and it's colder here. Not terribly, but it beats the balmy-hot air that didn't even dissipate at night, back there. Everything is big and loud and it reminds him of his two-month-stint in Brooklyn before he decided that too many people in New York City knew each other to keep a low profile.
But that was four months ago. Right now, Adam has to worry about what the fuck happened four minutes ago. He was there--there was a branch--he gripped the wheel and now...
Speed Limit
65
A frustrated scratch of his cheek, and he decides that this brick wall will do just fine for now, thank you. No need to take a step forward, no need to do anything but stand back for a second and observe. Because he's itching around in his right pocket for his smokes, then the left for his light.
Convenient that his mobile isn't there. Didn't he read something about being unable to really talk on the phone if you were dreaming? Yeah, that's what this is. He'll put money on it. If only the smell of the city weren't so fucking pungent.]