Mike realized faintly that he was not doing too well. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew things were going to be okay, that he was safe, that he was only overreacting. But he couldn't seem to listen to his rational brain.

The road was zipping by them as he risked a glance out the window, and the street lights became a broken blur, forcing his eyes to see a strobe effect that was searing into his retinas. The seat belt was digging into his shoulder and he nervously tugged it tighter, afraid it'd snap at any second, and he'd go flying through the windshield when the vehicle came to a sudden, crunching stop.

He pressed his head back into the leather upholstered seat as he tried to will himself to take even breaths. He'd tried at the beginning to close his eyes, but that had been decidedly worse.

In the blackness he'd seen flashes of the past. There were ripped, carpeted seats, blood, bone, fire. And there was the smell of burnt rubber and rain, and something sharper, like fear and sweat. The sounds of the gasoline burning, of the metal settling on the pavement was overwhelmingly loud, an eerie contrast to the silence within the car.

In the front seat he could see the outlines of twisted figures, covered in a thick red film, eyes wide and staring. They didn't move. Wouldn't move, no matter how loudly he called to them. He curled his hands into the leather of the seat beneath him, resisting the urge to reach out for the figures. He knew it was wrong, that it wasn't real. That was long ago.

His eyes flicked back towards the windshield and suddenly he couldn't breathe. He tried to take deeper, steadier breaths, but he could hear how futile his attempts were. He could hear the desperate gasping sound that he knew was coming from his pathetic form. Those were his knees that had come up to him, his feet digging into the seat, his hands cradling his head.

And then the images were back, though he was certain he hadn't closed his eyes. He saw them, the ghosts, sitting before him, stilled forever. He couldn't just let them go. He knew they were already gone, but he had to reach them anyway; he had to try.

And suddenly there were hands on his wrists, pulling his arms back, stopping him from reaching them. He fought with everything he had. He wouldn't lose them again, not this time. He couldn't.

Distantly, he heard something that seemed familiar, and he lessened his struggles. The ghosts were fading, the rain-soaked darkness of day returned to night, and the cloying scents of burning and rubber and death faded away. The hands that had trapped him before were now on his shoulders, a soft touch, gentle and steady.

And Harvey was staring at him. Harvey was leaning next to him from his right, where the car door was open. They had stopped, though Mike couldn't remember when. But it didn't matter because they were stopped and still, and Harvey was there, and it was the present. The ghosts were gone, and he was safe, and Harvey was apologizing for something.

Mike vaguely realized that Harvey must have stopped the car, that he must have acted strangely for him to have done so.

It took anywhere from fifteen minutes to years of Harvey talking him down for Mike to fully return.

There were no questions asked, and Mike certainly didn't answer any of the silent ones that Harvey was somehow holding back. But they didn't need them, anyway. Harvey was there, and he was driving slowly. No ghosts, no flashes, no scents. There was only Mike and Harvey, and that was enough.