I am in a 1930s sedan, an enclosed car that is proportioned larger than today's vehicles -- ample head, shoulder and leg room. I am in the front passenger seat, a padded bench, and a friend of mine is driving. I look out the closed windows, over the lip of a rolled front fender and the rear of a chrome headlight pod. We drive on a serpentine, dirt road down a hill in the countryside. It is sunny out, and we pass continually over a gulley. The gulley quickly deepens and as we turn a bend, we approach a small concrete bridge over a deep channel. The bridge is vaguely gothic in design, 1920s gothic, with multiple arched supports and arch designs in the concrete railings.

My friend and I are quietly talking. It's a guy, and if it is someone specific, I can't remember who it is now. As we start across the bridge, the road at the end just starts crumbling. Pot-holes suddenly appear and grow like webs, then whole sections of roadway cave; arch pillars fall away in dusty chunks down the gulley; balustrades collapse. The car stops and I brace myself, reaching one hand up to touch the solid quilted roof. The car trembles, then starts to plummet. I can't touch the roof; I start falling forward; there is no seat belt. It is silent.