A week prior to this trip, I had already been desert bound from Adelaide with my dearest friend, Emilie. Taking the highway route up, counting all the dead and burnt kangaroo roadkill… I stopped counting at 87. That trip, that week, I got a call from my Dad in the states, with the news that he had been diagnosed with cancer. I wanted to vomit, to scream. It felt fitting to feel so lost, to feel so out of control in a place in the world that doesn’t surrender to human nature, a place that keeps moving and changing at its own will. Yet in the car, it felt safe, it felt trapped.