Phillip Day was sitting in his Chevy Bolt on the side of the road. "You're an Imp for Demeaning Me" by The Hiccups was squawking on the radio. He turned the radio off.
For no apparent reason, he felt for his cheek and his elbow and his belly. They were all there. That was good. Also, his thorax was not gleaming. That was good, too.
He felt coy. He must have had quite a nap. What time is it? He looked at the clock. Eight p.m. About what you'd expect, still on schedule. The nap had taken no time at all.
He looked out the window. There was a moonscape visible across the road, but nothing special to see. Probably time to get going. He started up his Chevy Bolt and took off down the road. "Nogusedu dicloocyb," he thought to himself.