Getting into the car, winter morning. So fucking early. All dark – just clouds, no sun.
Getting into the car, winter morning: she pauses, because the insides of the windows are all fogged up. Fogged up like it’s warm in there.
Streetlights glare in the corner of her vision like an indictment, like a visual extension of the horror of the alarm clock still ringing in her ears.
A magpie grumbles at the not-yet-morning, and a trickle of moisture runs down the driver's side window. She is still hesitating. All her senses tingle. But time is ticking and she didn't get up so damn early just to be late.
She turns the key, slides into the driver's seat. All is quiet, and warm. Too warm. Without warning the door locks itself behind her and in the gloom of the back, something exhales. Warm air on the back of her neck.
As the sun slowly finds its way into the world the car sits immobile in the driveway. The inside is invisible behind fogged windows. Nothing moves except a trickle of moisture running down the driver's side pane.