It seemed he had been driving for days when in reality it was hours, but each hour seemed to tire his concentration and his muscles and his attention span just a little bit more. ‘Lay hold of the goal that lays ahead’ he keeps telling himself between sweetened swigs from the almost empty 2 litre Coke bottle. His blood stream now consists almost entirely of coke and and fatty deposits from take-aways he’s stopped in at along the way on his relentless pursuing of the finishing line. In his mind a stadium of people are cheering , while in reality there’s just the washy static of the a.m. station on the country radio station he’s managed to find.

When the telephone rang twelve hours ago he didn’t imagine himself projected forward in this strung out state, driving by the nerve fibers at the end of his fingers, keyed up to receive each jolt the road would deliver him on this marathon journey – this desperate mercy dash, but as soon as he heard the situation he dropped everything. There were no months of perparation and training for this – nothing can. No bottles of soothing water along the track being handed to him by well wishers, no energy bars being dispensed and certainly no parade as he crosses the finish line. Mundane hours of boring sunbaked country with disinterested sheep being the only spectators – if they are looking at all. He breathes in the air conditioning, been living in its recycled juices the last 11 hours tasting desperation tasting hope that he’ll get there in time, there is no quicker way. Why does she have to choose now to go into a final decline? Can she hod on ’til he gets there? It’s been on the cards but why now, in the midst of this marking marathon he’s undertaking for school?.