Imagine that he was back there in the most expensive leather, his own, smell of oxidizing propulsion fuel reeking and mingling with the greasy ponytail, condensation that drips once, twice onto the back of the neck from the fan, beers between the boots still tinging in their glass bottles in their satchel, cold and slung, flight plan clipped to the inside of the pants by the knee, three trussed agdis mumbling mumbo jumbo through impossible strands of red tape, their eyes giant and yellow, then a giant moon that gets smaller, three tracers flipping past the starboard bow, the concussion as our reply is fired, hardly bumping the glass, an implausible sandwich on the dashboard, a pacifier in the ashtray, man, a car on wheels, wheels upon pavement, pavement prepared on gravel, gravel that reflects sunshine in a quarry edged by blue, flippantly blue and airy grass.