There was something mesmerizing about driving, especially at this time of day. My friends and I had dubbed it "the witching hour", during which the worst of sunset’s rays ate into your retinas and the traffic finally thinned, and you were flying down the road without any thought in your mind of cops or drunk drivers or any of the other diseases of a teenager’s world. I lost myself in the monotonous passing of the yellow dashed lines between the lanes and in the way the cars fell behind as I sped along, a blurred bolt of rusty-red to the slow-driving old-lady-felons. Danger of collision and of the law faded as I became one with the machine I was driving; I became part of the engine, part of the seat, part of the steering wheel, part of the rubber on the tires, part of the road that extended on and on into the distance of eternity. It was a teenage rebel’s revelation, an adolescent punk queen’s heaven-on-earth.