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Our car rounds the corner, wheels screeching. Lance is annoyed, but his grinding teeth and sighs of ennui are drowned out by the frantic bleating coming from under the hood. The two goats are being pushed to their limits, and we’re going to have to ditch soon – better we pick somewhere now than have it forced on us when the carrot-tank is empty.
“If only this car was a bit newer,” I say, grinning, “we could be on the lamb!”
Lance turns to look at me, a stare of utter contempt.
“You have got to be kidding,” he says. His face is empty, but after a few seconds a smile bursts through, then grows to its full width. “That’s how you do that,” he says.