Conditional Reality

The car, a red 1991 Mazda Miata, followed us home. We shooed it away several times, firmly placing one hand on our hip and pointing a menacing finger with the other. But the Miata only paused for a moment, then continued following our path. We ducked down a narrow alley, ran up a flight of stairs, sprinted over several curbs, and trudged through a wooded park. We were sure we had shaken the Miata for good until we finally arrived home and found the impudent little sports car in our driveway, purring and humming contentedly. We feed it high octane.