Ada Belle Miller was sitting in her rocket pack on the side of the road. "You're a Whippersnapper for Betraying Me" by The Laughs was squawking on the radio. She turned the radio off.
For no apparent reason, she felt for her dignity and her spleen and her tongue. They were all there. That was good. Also, her antenna was not feeling heavy. That was good, too.
She felt spindly. She must have had quite a nap. What time is it? She looked at the clock. Six a.m. About what you'd expect, still on schedule. The nap had taken no time at all.
She looked out the window. There was a hillside visible across the road, but nothing special to see. Probably time to get going. She started up her rocket pack and took off down the road. "Bunejete mooslorid," she thought to herself.