By Anita Russell
How could he grip the wheel so lightly, yet still be able to see into the mist that haunted us? Whenever I felt threatened, whether in times of strife or uncertainty, my grip involuntarily tightened. It was an inherited instinct, perhaps a genetic one, but it entirely escaped his behaviour, as if he was more relaxed in danger. Maybe there was some internal battle raging inside that calm exterior, or maybe it was just that bottle he thought I did not know about, stashed beneath the seat.
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