"Yes dear," he croaks, sawing out a laugh. But he puts pressure on it anyway, sagging into the passenger seat. His shirt's going to be ruined, he thinks, blinking back from the glare as the car peels out into a lit street, lights flashing across the windshield. "This shirt's ruined," is what he says out loud. His fingers are all tacky against the fabric and the breeze whistles through the holes punched through the body of the car.

He's quiet for a long time. Then: "Put the radio on, would you?"