The truck is racing through the dusk, its headlamps, like pupils, searching for the finishing line. It’s close: Jeziorany, twenty kilometres. Another half-hour, and we’ll be there. The truck is pushing hard, but it’s touch and go. The old machine wasn’t meant for such a long haul.
On the flatbed lies a coffin.
Atop the black box is a garland of haggard angels. It’s worst on bends: the box slides and threatens to crush the legs of those sitting on the side rails. They curse, desecrating the coffin’s decomposing contents.