The tide washes onto the highway in thin silver sheets, more like mirages than waves. They tug at your tires like the real thing, though, and you do as hundreds, thousands of drivers must have before you, swerving from salt-crusted tarmac into the safer ruts that scar sand and scrub on the left side of the road. Bump and clatter of rock and shell, but no risk of being pulled out to sea.

Your best friend’s corpse is sitting in the passenger seat. He’s been quiet for a while now, just staring out at the silver sweeping over tarmac black and sandy gold. You keep the radio turned high enough that you can’t mistake any of the chatter between songs for his murmuring voice. Big, brassy don’t you dare fall asleep at the wheel, you fucker songs, you’ve been driving for so long, old sax sobbing about broken hearts and trumpet fanfare for new love won’t keep you awake until sunset at this rate.

Maybe you’re already asleep. Maybe better if you could believe that, even if it meant sailing into the ocean with only a rusted, coughing exhaust pipe for a rudder and dreams at the helm. Better than the rusty, coughing whisper of tendons in the seat beside you, and that voice sapped dry as salt glittering on the tarmac.

“If you’re really so sorry, why are you running?”

You don’t answer. Nothing good could come from answering that voice. You just keep driving, stare fixed straight ahead at the ruts a thousand travellers before you left by running from something, while the brass on the radio weeps just as hard about love gone and love come back.