Amelia Watson couldn't remember when she entered her car. Dead, hollow eyes, weary from a draining job, glazed over from the empty road and to her calloused, pale hands, simply contemplating. From her peripheral vision, there it said: 1:26 am.

Pocket change clinked on her dashboard, and each, slight drift ruffled, spare fast food wrappers in the back. Turning back to the road, her car barely running, she could barely make heads or tails of the repeating road. Then again, it's always been like that every day, hasn't it?

With her gas running low, and with each bridge beckoning her, Amelia continued forwards with apathy.