Killian took a deep breath and released it slowly. It really didn't help.
He closed his eyes and turned the ignition of his car again; this time, he twisted the key so hard that it nearly deformed. But he couldn't help it. Every nerve in his body felt raw, exposed. The slightest sound—like the rustling of the wind, the radio of the youngsters' car, the soft humming of the cloud—everything was grating on his nerves, making his patience run and his manner go on a very long holiday.
Finally realising that there was no point in going back and forth with the key, Killian dumped it and pushed open the door of his car. He walked to the front and snapped the front hood with a snap. He pulled it open to the top of his head and looked at the engine. From the looks of it, everything seemed to be fine. There was enough gasoline, water, and everything. So why was this damn thing not running?
