I’M WOKEN by a dull knocking, and for a moment I’m completely disoriented. Everything around me is gray; at irregular intervals floodlights cut through the darkness and fray the fog. The memory rushes in at me, so that I have to shut my eyes and breathe deeply in and out. My blackouts last longer and longer these days. I really need to sleep for twelve hours, the short pauses aren’t enough.
The knocking again.
A man appears out of the fog. Yellow flat cap, green army jacket, and an orange tracksuit. Flip-flops on his feet. He stops by one of the rubbish bins and throws in a bag. After that he pees in the meager grass next to it, as if my car and I didn’t exist. Perhaps he thinks I’m asleep, perhaps he doesn’t care. When he’s finished, he scratches his backside and disappears back into the fog.
I take my cramped hand off the ignition key, I was prepared for anything. Two taillights glow red in the darkness, a minivan pulls out of the rest area, and again there’s that knocking from the trunk. It lasts for exactly twenty-four seconds. When it’s quiet again I get out and take a look.
His forehead is covered with blood. Somehow he’s managed to get his head free. I leave the trunk open for a few minutes so the stench can escape, then duct-tape his head to the spot. It’s the third day. He isn’t getting any water from me, he hasn’t earned it.