The hills of Griffin rise and fall as you drive to Atlanta Road down Taylor Street. You can almost smell the smoke from the building that caught fire last night. You'd like to remember the name of it, but it escapes like water from your cupped hand. Sunshine glints between trees and buildings. It peeks out from beneath billboard. It ducks around corners and leaps from hidden niches like a giggling child. The Castrol Tire and Lube welcomes you with a quiet nod of efficient courtesy. Take my keys, flush my fluids, fix my wipers, change my filters, you say. You can hear the Keurig cough and steam while air drills crank and machinery moans and metal scrapes, and men laugh. A keyboard clack, clack, clacks away and a water cooler belches a bubble of air from its last use by a long-since-forgotten thirsty customer. You take it all in inside a moment before you turn on your phone, insert your earbuds, and await your services rendered wrapped in an electric blanket of pixels, vexels, three G's, and a screen of liquid crystals.