She wheeled backwards to double check the door, pushing with her toes and wobbling awkwardly across the tarmac. It was locked. Good. She pushed off again and made her way down through the aisle left by parked cars, each mounted on and tipped slightly away from the pavement, as if curtsying to her procession. She passed the milkman, doing his rounds. He didn’t see her at first through the morning fog, but as he recognised her he gave a nod and a wintry smile. A final farewell, perhaps, for her last morning ride.