By the mercy of Michelin and the intercession of whoever it is that invented brakes, we come to a halt inches from the wall. I glance out the window. For some reason, we’re in the forecourt of a petrol station.
“Are we low on fuel?” I ask.
“No, but sure we’ve time to grab a coffee, haven’t we?” he says. Pulling a tenner out of his pocket, he continues: “Here, run in there and order us something. I’ll have a latte and a muffin. Not chocolate.”
I bundle out, heart pounding with anxiety; somehow all sense of panic has been divested onto me. Adrenalin is throbbing painfully through my veins and I fear a coffee will set me over the edge. A truck-driver is at the deli counter, ordering some complex sandwich while flirting with the girl behind it.
Twenty seconds gone. He’s still there.
I resist the urge to club the dawdler out of the way, and try to focus on my breathing.
Twenty-five. Truckman continues to jabber as they take their dalliance from the deli counter to the till. I follow, a low growl coming from my throat.
Eventually, the driver pays up and shoves on, giving me a dirty look, and I get my chance at the counter.
“Hi sir, any fuel today?”
“Yes, hi. Eh, no. Thanks. A latte and a camomile tea, please.”
“Oh, I’m really sorry, we can’t serve you tea.”
“What? Why not?”
“The machine’s broken.”
“What machine?” I ask, as more valuable time ticks away.
“The hot water. My manager’s getting a new one today in town–”
Outside, through the glass, the faint revving of my flight commander’s twitchy foot.
“Grand, no problem,” I say. “A latte and a black coffee, so.”
“I sorry, I can’t give you that either, sir.”
“Which, the latte or the coffee?”
“The coffee, sir.”
I smile, keeping calm. “That’s fine, just two lattes, then.”
“Certainly, sir.”
She turns and gets to work.
I steal a glance at my wristwatch, the second hand sweeping around into the time this tender delivery has borrowed from the end of my life. I look back up. She is waiting for my attention.
“Sorry, you didn’t want coffee in the lattes as well, did you? Because the hot water, you know…”
There is no time for this. There is no time for this, screams my brain.
“Coffee? No!” I say, aghast at the suggestion. “Just hot milky froth is fine, thanks.” I scurry to the rear of the shop to grab a jar of instant coffee. Seventy priceless seconds lost so far.
The two cups of milk bubbles sit on the counter when I return. The young girl stands there, pleased with herself.
“Thanks,” I say. “Oh, and a muffin.”
She puts a chocolate muffin on the counter.
“No, sorry, any other one. Not chocolate. There, that blueberry one.”
“We’re all out.”
“But that one there,” I say, gesturing at it.
“No, I can’t sell you that, my manager says we’re not to sell the last ones.”
“Why not?”
“So people know what we have.”
“But if you won’t sell it, it doesn’t matter, surely?”
“People would ask questions,” she insists, adding: “The chocolate ones are most popular.”
“I don’t want the chocolate ones; please, can I not have the blueberry?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Please.”
“I’m sorry,” she says with a shrug.
Eighty seconds.
“Fair enough so,” I say, changing tack and squinting at the glass. “I can see, those display muffins aren’t real.”
“No, no, they are.”
“No look, they’re wax or something.”
She reaches in to the sticky bun and withdraws it. “See, feel that,” she insists. “It is real.”
I slap the tenner on the counter and steal the muffin. “I’m sorry, this is not the real me,” I shout as I escape through the sliding doors.
Crossing the forecourt, I punch a hole in the top of the jar of instant coffee and empty the granules liberally into the milk froth.
Eighty-six seconds.
The passenger door is thrust open and I leap into the car as it takes off.
“Well, were you grinding the coffee in there, or what took you so long?” says the boss as we hurtle back into the tunnel of trees.
We gather pace, trying to reach Mach 2.0 speed. We clear a hump at the end of the stretch and take off. Mid-sip and mid-flight, I observe the sharp bend just beyond our expected landing position, and inhale my last breath.