It wasn’t until he looked down at the fuel gauge and saw how quickly it was dropping that he realized the smell of gasoline was stronger than usual. Maybe on the sidewalks of London, but not here in the sands of the Sahara. He was going slower and slower, and he realized that at this rate he would never make the road to Tobruk. “Melina, Melina,” he whispered and brought the photo to his lips to kiss her. What happened to her?”
“Melina is inside you!”
He was stunned, not understanding, so he asked:
“What do you mean she’s inside me? “What are you doing?” he asked, curious to see how real his hallucination was and how far he could go with it. He slept hard, thinking of Melina, because even though he realized it was silly, he had really grown fond of her and her voice. After measuring the distance on the map and seeing that he was exactly 111 km from the nearest point on the road to Tobruk, he put the pistol on the seat.
