He was not drunk at all in fact. The situation had knocked the stupor out of him and left him feeling stone cold sober. A kind of sobriety he hadn't felt in a while actually. Even without drugs or alcohol we dulled ourselves in some ways. Got settled into a form of adulthood that was tolerable.

While smelling the leather and cigarettes that reminded George of his uncle's car while growing up, he felt sober of his family life and his career. If he didn't keep something in his mind he would notice an anxiety growing rapidly. so he focused on the smell.

Uncle Chip was dead now. Back in the day Chip would take George out for ice cream, to the bowling alley, in the summer to the fair. Things like that. His car would always smell of old smoke even though he would never smoke while George was in the car.

As a kid he liked that smell actually. He had even asked his mom whether dad could start smoking so that their car could smell just as good. His mom looked at him in disgust and didn't reply more than just a few nods.

Now Chip was dead. Just like his coworker Marc Love. Damn. He had lost his grip on that memory. Now he was back inside the car. He told himself, "focus on that smell. Remember what it felt like back then in Chip's car."

"We're here, sir." the detective in the passenger seat said without looking back. The sound of doors opening. George couldn't escape what was happening. He tried though. As he walked into the station with them. No handcuffs. He was walking of his own free will, but he was trying to escape with his mind. Think about Chip. Think about endless summers. Think about two dollar sundaes.