It starts with sound of butterfly wings, flappying, hundreds of them aroundmy head, thump, thinping; and my hari lashing against my cheeks like wisps of grass. My face sprouts from the backseat window like a tender green shoot through concrete. I can't hear my grandmother Elsie shouting to put my head back into the car. I can't hear Jed swearing about this godforsaken place in them middle of nowhere.