We'd been driving for around 7,000 years. Or possibly that is the way it felt. My sibling, Steven, drove more slow than our Granna. I sat close to him in the front seat with my feet up on the dashboard. In the meantime, my mom was dropped in the rearward sitting arrangement. In any event, when she dozed, she looked alarm, as at any subsequent she could awaken and coordinate traffic. "Speed up," I asked Steven, jabbing him in the shoulder. "We should pass that youngster on the bicycle." Steven disregarded me. "Never contact the driver," he said. "Also, take your messy feet off my dashboard." I squirmed my toes to and fro. They looked pretty spotless to me. "It's not your dashboard. It will be my vehicle soon, you know." "In the event that you at any point get your permit," he jeered. "Individuals like you shouldn't be permitted to drive."