Translated by Russell L. Dees

I drive back and forth to the market each day in an old hearse. A Volkswagen from the end of the ’70s. It is a rustbucket, about to fall apart. I only use it for my short, everyday runs. I imagine the road goes across the U.S. 500 kilometres of asphalt road surrounded by prairie. Exiting to a motel with red doors. A fat woman is dipping bread into egg and milk and placing it in a pan. I clasp my hands under the table and thank the Lord we’ve made it this far without mishap. We still have gas in the tank and oil in the engine. Vapours are rising from the car outside.