Eight fourteen both ways. We're in sync. No, I take that back, Rod is bringing the overhead. There will be no accidents on the freeway. There will be no accidents.
People buy from people.
There are no accidents. He arrives at eight forty-six, fourteen minutes to go. He hands the keys to his car to the attendant, a short Mexican of questionable driving age. His eyes tell the kid to take damn good care of the car or else, or else no tip. The kid smiles, he's probably a damn site better driver than Mr. Owner here, and knows it.