The following text is a fanfiction chapter of the handmaids tale "I am lying on the floor of the car. This is my reward for my evening of rental, a fitting reimbursement for a difficult night shift. My thoughts are like a train on a damaged track, every imperfection in the road briefly interrupting the journey. It is upsetting because NAME_1 has left so much on my mind. 
	Seeing this new version of NAME_1 was surreal. NAME_1 used to be loud and unafraid of anything, speaking to anyone she encountered in the language from before. Now, her voice is lost. She is reserved, demure, living her daily life trapped in this unpleasant existence. It is funny how language can change a person so drastically. On the other hand, language still lifts NAME_1 up to a higherness. Her name, NAME_1, is all that is left of her former self. She is fortunate, powerful, because unlike the rest of us, she was not given a new name. She retains an amount of individuality. The way I had imagined NAME_1’s escape gave so much to her name. This news washed over it like a wave, rendering it devoid of any power or inspiration. 
	Bump!
	The seats around me form the walls of my cage, constructing a cell which forces me to feel every imperfection in the road. I am trapped just like NAME_1 is. Our current cages are a subset of something larger; The complex in which all women reside. My sustenance was the proof that it was imperfect, imagining an escape was easier when I thought NAME_1 had done it before. My reality has been simplified. Thanks to NAME_1, I don’t have to worry about an escape. Thanks to NAME_1, I can continue going about my routines without distraction. Thanks to NAME_1, I don’t have to worry about being a person. I will serve my purpose. Gilead was always something pliable. Imperfect and manipulable, but that was a blatant misapprehension. Now I see it for what it really is: a prison upheld by unbreakable walls, superhuman guards, and covert cameras around every corner. Prisons never struck me as a place to be filled with so much and so little decorum.
	Bump!
	I am unmoving. I sit idly at the floor of this car, yet it would be so easy for me to get up to a seat. I am physically restrained by an immaterial barrier. No, this barrier is crossable. If I am not physically constrained, what does that make me? Complacent. No, what if both ideas are wrong. 
" It happens chronologically during the drive back from jezebels where NAME_2 is thinking to herself about how dissapointed she is with NAME_1 and how it makes her sad. However, the work is unfinished. 