FFM 01: Grenades

“It’s got to be ninty degrees.  I hate this weather.”
    “Could be worse,” he says.
    “Yeah, maybe. It could be raining. Take a left,” she says, and fiddles with the less-than-effective air-conditioning.
    He grunts, both hands on the wheel, concentrating, intense.
    She tries, again, to put the window down, but he’s locked the controls.
    “Woah, what are you doing!”
    “There was a bag in the road,” he says.
    “Well, just, run it over or something.”
    He shudders. She notices. But he doesn’t say anything.
    “Why can’t we put the windows down?”
    “Grenades.”