The man behind the overlarge steering wheel was the man from his dream – the man who had put the tiny golden key over Jerry’s head. “The heart,” he’d said before he vanished. Jerry had awoken, clutching the delicate silver chain which had appeared around his neck.

His hair was blindingly silver, into which was woven bits of brightly-colored thread. His face was carved with age and weather and marred by long-healed wounds. He had skin the color of dried clay.

It was impossible to tell how old the man was; although his body was ancient, his eyes retained a reflection of youth.

He almost reminded Jerry of a pirate.

“Ah, there you are, boy,” he said, as though he had been waiting for Jerry for an eternity. His voice and the proper way in which he spoke seemed incongruent to his body.

“Who are you? Where are we going?” Jerry asked, practically in one breath, as he stowed his bag beneath one of the bright orange seats.

“I’m Jack,” the man said. “And we’re headed for the end of the line.”