The radio spat the familiar noise of snow and static at him. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles turned white. He hunched forward, breathing heavily, and sweating profusely. His face was crimson.

“Get the lead out!” he shouted at the river in front of him as he smacked the horn. His car lurched forward, then ceased to move. Good. This was progress. He dropped back into the seat and sighed, closing his eyes. Thanks to the darkness, he noticed that the radio was no longer leaking music. With a swift motion and only one eye open, he switched it off.

His eyes wandered, as they often did when he was in a gridlock. He toyed with the air freshener hanging off of the rearview mirror. He played with the controls that allowed him to adjust his seat. He picked up his newspaper and attempted to read it, but found that he couldn’t. He just wasn’t up to it. After all, he hadn’t slept for two days.

Another ten minutes of waiting, and his car moved forward two more feet. He tried to be furious, but he merely reconciled himself to his situation. “What good would getting angry do?” he thought.

His every motion caused him pain. Every muscle he moved felt as though it immediately had  hundreds of tiny thumbtacks thrust into it. His bones ached. He could only move his head by a slow swinging of the neck, as if it was on a pivot. The car needed to reach its destination: home. There, there was a bed.

He had to stay awake. He had to find a way to occupy himself. With that goal in mind, he checked his glove compartment.

Inside, was an object he’d never seen before: a sleek black gun.

His already pale face turned the color of ivory. Slowly, he extended a wary hand to grab the gun and lift it. When he felt its weight he almost dropped it in agony, but he kept his arm up and inspected the weapon more closely- but he found nothing. “Where did this come from?” he wondered.

His eyes returned to the car in front of him. He could see the top of the driver’s head. “Should I…” he thought, but he didn’t finish. Suddenly, he felt it imperative to get out of this traffic. He flicked the gun onto the passenger’s seat, and desperately honked the horn. “Come on!” he shouted, almost pleadingly.

After a while, he smacked the grip of the steering wheel and slammed his head down on the top of it. He stared at his feet for a minute, then slowly lifted his head until he could look in the rearview mirror. His own eyes stared back at him. He glanced at the gun, then back into the mirror.

He put the car in reverse, and backed off the highway and into the woods that lined the side of it. Under its shade, the car shuddered through, in the direction of home. But it didn’t go very far.

After twenty years of strain, the engine had finally had enough. It blew, and, smoke rising from under the thrown-open hood, refused to move the car anymore.

Sensing vaguely that he had to run, had to run, had to run, if there was fire- in case there was a fire- the man, unconsciously, grabbed the gun and, in a daze, ran out of the car and deeper into the woods. He had no idea where he was headed.

…

Night fell, and so did the man. Spent, he slumped down, his back against a tree, panting heavily. He still gripped the gun in his hand. As he began to settle down, he looked at the gun and angrily tossed it away.

“I need sleep,” he thought. But he knew sleep would not come.

He had no idea where he was or why, or how far he was from a town- any town, any town at all. He was hungry, tired, thirsty, angry, and exhausted. His thoughts were jumbled, and his head pulsed with the pain of a headache. And…

He burst out laughing. He laughed easily, freely, and joyously. The trials of the day flew out of him, through his laughter. He had never felt more alive; he had never felt more happy.

Feeling light as air, and still laughing, he walked over to and picked up the gun. Holding it at his side, he continued walking.

…

The next day, he reached a city. He didn’t know which one. He went to a police officer, and told him his story. He was believed.

The gun belonged to his wife. No amount of questioning could get her to tell anyone why she had that gun and why she hid it in her husband’s car.

Chuckling, he said, “I know why.” He bent down, and pecked his wife on the cheek. “Thanks, honey.”

She turned to him. Her eyes were blank and vapid.