The entire trip, her fingers had rapped against the faded leather of the steering wheel, as if in sync with some high tempo melody, though the radio hadn't worked in years. When the road disappeared and she continued on foot, she bit at her nails like a beaver on wood. When her nails had been reduced to craggy husks, she took to scratching the nape of her neck, digging, searching, pleading for something which she never found. But here in this place, on the harsh wood, under the infinite sky, floating atop reflections, while she reflected herself, she was still. And the world was still. The only movement being her eyelids, as they creaked ever so slightly open, gingerly, timidly, every few minutes, just to make sure she was still there.