Where am I from? Now then, there’s a question. Good one, Drive. Pertinent, you might say. You know what, though? I’m not sure. I’m not sure I’m from anywhere. Perhaps, and I think this might be true, I have always been in the back of this cab, with my cranium vibrating against the window, like a sickly, beak-less woodpecker—gulping at the hot syrup to keep my stomach muscles calm—quietly fighting against those bitter, bulbous tones of your heavy accent that pound my eyes closer and closer together until, eventually, if I’m not careful, you smash them into a single sphere. This could be where I’m from though, couldn’t it? I’ve been here all along.