Yellow are the streetlights and cats-eyes. Beneath is asphalt, not undergrowth. The world is a blur of insignificant greys and greens and –– when you least expect it –– flame-licked sunsets, all too brief. This is not a place where roads diverge. It is one smooth motorway, cruising speed. Eyes fixed forward.

At first, his signs are small and subtle. A farm-stand selling strawberries. An honesty box. And though I like the look of the soft fruits, I drive on. Soon, the signs grow bigger. Later still they are illuminated. He offers what slip-roads always offer on motorways: to quench thirst, sate hunger. Service you. The respite, by design, is brief and transactional: the first two hours of parking are free. After this, the charges are astronomical.

I do not need to check the gauge to know my tank is empty.

Beside me, my passenger sleeps. He has been asleep for a very long time. He sees nothing.

Inflatable balloon men wave their arms. Unemployed actors in Muppet suits spin signs. And the slip-roads come up faster and faster: weekly, daily, hourly, minute-by-minute. Still, I press my foot on the pedal and try to keep going a little while longer.

Ages hence, I guess I’ll wonder: did it make any difference?

Tell me, Robert. Am I doing the right thing?