You're no elder—people were already complaining about computers ruining cars when you were a kid. Your parents weren't around to teach you much, and your school was a holding pen that you avoided as much as you could. Instead, you got your license as soon as you could, got out of town, and drove from city to city learning to do what you loved, which was…
You dig around in the glove compartment, finding only a few maps and an expired Clif bar (to give you the appearance of life). Then you check under the seat: a broken folding knife, a Michigan ID of someone who looks sort of like you, some ninja rocks for breaking car windows, a rusty Leatherman.
Worthless. But if there's one thing you learned getting into trouble as a kid, it was when to walk away. This situation is fucked, and your car is now a death trap. Rather than wait to burn, you grab the satchel with your deliveries and head away from the highway, looking for anything that might save you from destruction: an old mine shaft, an abandoned shack, anything.
The stars to the east are gone, replaced by a blue-purple haze. It's 6:30 a.m. You remember the last time you saw the sun.