I was driven to Cherokee.
A hazy memory of riding caged in the back of a police car.
Two shadows in the front seat, the county sheriff and a female escort, jabbering. I, cargo, to be delivered from the Woodbury County courthouse to the Cherokee Mental Institution.
Outside, the Iowa landscape bleak:
Cloudy and cold, condensation and frost riming the windows, piles of dirty snow dotting the countryside.
Inside, hot and steamy.
Still, I shivered, my teeth chattering. Please turn up the heat!
But cargo has no voice.
For all the importance of this drive–then and now–I remember little, except for one question:
Am I really crazy?