Well, a ship's better than never driving anything.
[ Jesse settles into the passenger seat, the door creaking shut behind him. Everything here is strange, even the familiar. The layout, the feel of the thing. It’s like someone took every car he’s ever known and scrambled the pieces, leaving just enough behind to make him think he could still figure it out. He shifts, stretches one arm across the dash, then lets his hand fall back to his lap. ]
Yeah.
[ Jesse replies, nodding toward the ignition, voice a little rough from the heat and the dust. ]
You put the key in here.
[ Jesse demonstrates, taking the keys from Gustave's open palm and pushing it into the ignition slot. ]
Okay, now look down by your feet and you'll see two pedals. One on the right is to go and the one on the left is to stop. You gotta hold down the left one when you turn the key to start it. You'll hear the engine kick on and then you can let go of the key.
[ He explains. It feels kind of nice to be the one explaining how something works. Most of the time it's the other way around for him. Some might take this opportunity to belittle someone else the way he's been, but Jesse does the opposite. He tries to explain things the way he would want someone else to explain it to him. Outside, the scrapyard hums with a low, metallic kind of patience. Somewhere distant, something crashes. A dropped engine, maybe. Wind snakes through the open windows, carrying the scent of sun-scorched rubber. Jesse lets it roll over him, anchoring himself to the here, the now, the rhythm of small steps that might still lead somewhere. He tries not to think of home, of Mr. White. Of everything he might have left behind. ]
no subject
[ Jesse settles into the passenger seat, the door creaking shut behind him. Everything here is strange, even the familiar. The layout, the feel of the thing. It’s like someone took every car he’s ever known and scrambled the pieces, leaving just enough behind to make him think he could still figure it out. He shifts, stretches one arm across the dash, then lets his hand fall back to his lap. ]
Yeah.
[ Jesse replies, nodding toward the ignition, voice a little rough from the heat and the dust. ]
You put the key in here.
[ Jesse demonstrates, taking the keys from Gustave's open palm and pushing it into the ignition slot. ]
Okay, now look down by your feet and you'll see two pedals. One on the right is to go and the one on the left is to stop. You gotta hold down the left one when you turn the key to start it. You'll hear the engine kick on and then you can let go of the key.
[ He explains. It feels kind of nice to be the one explaining how something works. Most of the time it's the other way around for him. Some might take this opportunity to belittle someone else the way he's been, but Jesse does the opposite. He tries to explain things the way he would want someone else to explain it to him. Outside, the scrapyard hums with a low, metallic kind of patience. Somewhere distant, something crashes. A dropped engine, maybe. Wind snakes through the open windows, carrying the scent of sun-scorched rubber. Jesse lets it roll over him, anchoring himself to the here, the now, the rhythm of small steps that might still lead somewhere. He tries not to think of home, of Mr. White. Of everything he might have left behind. ]