Every pole telegraphed, 'Hit ME! HIT me! HIT ME!' The wheel in Tom's hands was small and light. One sharp turn would be all it would take, though speed would be difficult at this hour. And the hospitals were close. Tom hunched forward, peering through slitted eyes at scenes he no longer had a right to be part of. The stunning sunset made him moan. The stately park trees shunned him. The fountain sprays dove earthward to avoid his gaze. He had completely worn out his welcome.

He felt like he was on borrowed time, with foreclosure imminent. He thought how easy it would be to liquidate his savings in a final, reckless attempt to break out of his bullsh*t. In theory his thousands could buy comfort and happiness. But what to buy? He had everything he needed, save the ability to enjoy it. Moreover, he felt he'd forfeited all right to happiness, since he considered his sorrow void of legitimate cause. Heavy guilt hastened his mood’s descent. Tibetans, Kurds, Somalis, Kosovars, East Timorese: these had a right to feel miserable. Deaf people, blind, autistic, paralysed, aged, bereft and alone: they had cause for grief. He'd lost no one to Death, never starved, never been denied comfort, never coveted something he couldn't get with hard work. No childhood diseases, no broken bones, parents happily married, education, advancement, prospects. Free to pursue his own course, he’d built success upon privilege, then had the outrageous temerity to get depressed about it. What a thankless turd.

The pounding in his head presaged a split, through which thoughts streamed dark enough to obscure the windscreen. Sarah's building towered menacingly. Tom parked in its shadow and bid it crush him. He was early. When Sarah finally climbed into the car, she beheld a face that read: 'my whole family has just been murdered'.

To be continued...