Balmy currents rushed past the camaro as he drove past the state border sign. For Isildor, it was easy to forget he'd passed going the other way just a year prior. But now he was passing another past, one that hadn't delivered after the disaster of the first past.

What he first realized was the surge in traffic going the other direction. The highway, once unkempt and stretching miles with unremarkable landmarks, had a fresh coat of asphalt lining a 3-way road each side. (name of town) he knew, had experienced moderate population growth, especially for wealthy retirement communities. The ongoing political unrest back here, at home, would also explain the increased exodus. Indeed, hitchhikers dotted the other side of the highway like dessicated trees.

Isildor was not the man to question the state of things for long, and in return no wanderer on the other side gave him passing glances. He was comfortably returning to the same home as he had left it. Here, life was taken as it was given.

Checking the rearview mirror as a rich man checks his safe, Isildor carefully put his foot aside the gas. Just enough application, he thought, to make time, but not enough to wear down the asphalt. He had nowhere in particular to be, except out of mind of the law.

In the passenger seat Isildor had buckled up an unremarkable silver urn. It was the single reparation delivered from his enemies and his wallet, and needed to be kept upright.
Isildor glances over at the earn and stabilizes it as they pass over a construction bump.

"Well, guess we both made it home safely Lucas"