Sometimes, it’s impossible to get home.

Especially if home is not where you think it should be.

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From the book…

The Greyhound bus jolted to a halt and woke Billy from his alcohol-induced stupor. Through the haze and as if underwater, he could hear indistinct voices. He fought to gain control over his clouded mind. As he did the voices began to recede into the distance. He opened his eyes and forced them into focus.

In the semi-darkness and about half a metre from his nose was a cotton and plastic wall with a garish pattern. It was the rear of a steeply reclined bus seat. He tried moving but realised he couldn’t. Curled up in a tight ball, he was jammed between the aisle armrest and the side of the bus. Totally soaked in sweat, his right cheek was firmly stuck to the vinyl seat.

With some difficulty he pried it loose, making a loud, ripping sound in the process. He cringed. Rubbing his cheek, he gripped the headrest of the seat in front and dragged himself into an upright position. He attempted to peer out of the window. It was dripping wet with condensation from the air conditioning. With limited success he wiped it partially dry with the sleeve of his jacket. Looking through the moisture-smeared window he could just make out some fuel bowsers and the facade of a roadhouse.

Everything was bathed in a bright, urine-tinged light.

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