A woman of her times walks along a road. She approaches a car parked on the side of the road. A hand-lettered note taped to the window tells her its price and the seller's phone number. She walks back along the road to a payphone and dials the number. She waits for the owner to arrive, watching little fluffy white clouds in the sky over a sun-drenched field of spinach and high-tension powerlines. The owner arrives in another car, and the woman of her times pays him the agreed amount and takes the key. She finds an empty gas can in the trunk, which she carries back along the road to a gas station where she fills the can, then she returns to the car and pours the fuel in. She drives away from the spinach farm into the future. The dust stirred up by her wheels settles slowly back into the road.
* * *
Times have changed. The spinach is gone, the powerlines are gone, grass has grown up through the asphalt. The woman drives the car on ther road again. She passes the gas station and the phone booth, both derelict. The car sputters and stalls and comes rolling to a halt. She steps out, looks over the car measuringly, then turns and walks away down the road, the key falling absently from her hand.