Dusty Sludge was sitting in his rocket pack on the side of the road. "I'm a Clapperdudgeon for Questioning You" by The Glares was squawking on the radio. He turned the radio off.
For no apparent reason, he felt for his wrist and his elbow and his spine. They were all there. That was good. Also, his hand was not breaking off. That was good, too.
He felt fuzzy. He must have had quite a nap. What time is it? He looked at the clock. Seven p.m. About what you'd expect, still on schedule. The nap had taken no time at all.
He looked out the window. There was a canyon visible across the road, but nothing special to see. Probably time to get going. He started up his rocket pack and took off down the road. "Gilufyloo jywrucyd," he thought to himself.