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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.