I stop the car and get out, tense, alert, trembling like a filet mignon in heat. The other car just sits there. The engine is silent, and I think to myself that it just isn't right. I can't see the other driver. I can't see anything in his car but my own reflection on the windshield. He doesn't want to be seen.
An artificial voice whispers in my ear, "Drop the bag and leave this place. There will be no payment." I find I must obey, even though I know this means my life will be over shortly. The bag falls from my hand, and I hear the soft thud of my life's work hitting the pavement. In that one instant, I am ruined. I return to my car.
I am driving, now, but only the lines on the highway giving me a direction. My life cannot go forward and it cannot go back. I can only drive. The windshield protects me, for I am so empty inside I would surely be turned to dust by the wind.
Days have passed, or maybe only hours. I have left the urbs and suburbs where I had invested my life in the contents of that bag. I am in a new place on a dirt road. Perhaps it is a farm; I have heard of such things.
The car has stopped functioning. I continue on the road, mindlessly, crawling with the last of my strength. The stones and dirt are slowly eating my clothes. I press on.