The traffic went on forever. Stan was bouncing with energy, barely contained by his seatbelt.
“Are we almost there?”
“I don’t know, baby. There’s a lot of traffic and it isn’t moving very fast.”
“But are we almost there?”
Stan’s mom sighed, “I don’t know, Stan.”
The car was hot, the air stagnant. The only thing moving was Stan. He was shaking with excitement and impatience.
“Mom, we aren’t going to make it! We’re going to miss the circus,” he cried.
Stan’s mom wiped a bead of sweat off her brow, “I’m sure we’ll make it.”
Stan’s expression was dubious.