where the writers are

Halfway to the crisis bed, after he’d already convinced himself that the driver was an alien and his support person had been duped into helping him be kidnapped, he made his first attempt at escape, only to be thwarted by the automatic child-safety locks. 

He pounded on the window once or twice, but not hard enough to break it, remembering the gash and the subsequent sutures his last such action had netted him.

He was pretty sure he’d starve to death before they’d consider slowing down enough for even a drive-through burger.

He hadn’t eaten in over five hundred years.

They tried to get him to take a pill, but he was too smart for that, feigning sleep between his ranting tantrums and screaming incessantly just to keep himself awake whenever he thought he might nod off.

When they finally arrived, he knew he’d been there before—many times—but he had no idea where the hell he was.