"No," Cleo yelled, "I'm pregnant." Seconds later a gun went off near my ear.
"Are you okay, honey?" Shivering and crawling, the scattered front screen broken glass scratching my hands, the obtrusive petrol fragrance first stinging my eyes, then cloaking, eclipsing the full moon. I was crying, mad as hell.
I recalled the rednecks at the traffic lights giving me the finger. Then, speeding the ancient Roman road, two-driveway wide, repaved recently, main access to Mortsel, a little village near Antwerp in Belgium, then crashing.
She was okay, but little did we know, the pendulum stirred, for the ninety-ninth time, again. Countdown has begun.
Only one thought emerged: "F..CK, home AGAIN!"