I am sitting in the backseat
Of a car I don't want to be in,
Traveling to a place
I hate going.

They say we're making good time,
Flying down stretch after stretch of interstate at 85 miles per hour.
But I'm praying for a highway miracle,
Something to slow down the coming
Of what's at the end of this road.

I've looked for an escape route,
But can't seem to find one.
Carseats block me in,
Ensuring I don't flee.

It would have been easier
If I had been forced to come here,
Because then I have someone to blame,
But I came willingly,
Simply because I'm to nice to say no.

So I'll plaster on a smile,
A borrowed one I've saved from happier times.
They'll never know the difference.