It was a long hill, the town another hundred miles, when the shot rang out, pulling the van sideways like we’d been hit by a low bull. I swung the wheel against it, thinking there was some kind of battle ahead, a force to contend, something big and threatening, and pulled over. ‘What the fuck was that?’ Mike’s eyes were wide.

‘I think the tire blew.’

The rear tire was in shreds; the spare was threadbare.

‘You need new tires, man.’

‘I know.’

The jack was broken and the bolts fused.

We sat and drank and finally got the tire, off bolt by bolt, and I thought about how much I loved my van.