He drives the middle road, across The Heath, tarmac edges crumbled like eczema, clamping his cheap car to the centre of the camber; the realm of tractors and pheasants.
The Give Way sign is ahead, the vanishing point of hedges higher than a man, set back on geese-wide green verges.
He’s going nowhere, just home, that silent empty sham.
He’s driven this a hundred times, always wondered: what if he ignored the sign, went straight across? Never any traffic.
Fifty yards to go and he puts his foot down. Fifty. Sixty. Adrenalin accelerates.
There is a moment he feels alive again.