By Erin Soros
It isn’t my neighbourhood. It isn’t my car, either, but I seem to be driving it, my slick hands slipping on the steering wheel of this borrowed vehicle that carries me in such a protected fashion through my city, the car’s gleaming metal skin between myself and the people who like to lurch their legs right in front of traffic on Main Street, as if to say a human body should be value enough to stop two tons of gasoline-powered steel.