I engage the automatic gearbox. I shift it to Drive, and I press gently onto the accelerator. An animal, a creature of habit, takes over in my mind, and I look left, and right, and I move my cage forward.

I soon find myself racing.

Racing down a two-lane highway, opting for the fast left because I want to go home. This cage and I are one. There are other cars ahead of me. I slow down. I shift lanes. I keep my foot on the throttle. The engine roars, and I try to keep my cage a little over the speed limit.

As my body adapts to driving, my mind is indecisive. I listen to the latest technology podcast, but I also can’t help but dance with the idea that taking a nap would be so good right now. My eyelids are a touch heavy. I shake myself off. I tune to the radio instead, searching for a fast tempo. I come across a Foo Fighters song, which does the job for now.

I think of work. Of that odd email, and whether she was sarcastic when she wrote that. Of that weird interaction, and whether it meant anything. I think of that car ahead of me, and the silhouette of a dog I see in the passenger seat.

I’ve driven this route before, and I know what lane to be in; no GPS necessary. I play with the idea of going to a drive-thru for dinner.

I stop at a gas station.

An attendant steps out, and says this station offers free service. Really? I ask. Yes. I give the man my credit card and my zipcode and I see him ordering gas. I get my card back. I start up the car again and look at my odometer. 2450 miles. Man, that’s a lot.

I get home. I open the garage door, fold my mirrors in so that the car fits, and chase the cat away so that I can park.

Sleep awaits.