Nobody in the drive-thru lane has any idea.
The beetle whirs and kicks its tiny limbs, shuffling about, circling, struggling to regain an upright position.
It takes a beat, a breath. Its shadow dances slowly.
Nobody in the drive-thru lane has any idea.
It flails around some more and, still, cannot seem to find its way back on its legs, back in the air.
The car at the front of the drive-thru line moves on and the rest of the cars proceed forward. A man complains about a petty order issue--some kind of coupon or receipt thing--and demands to see the manager. The woman in the car behind his grumbles about the man complaining and says, "GOD! Hurry up!" The group of teenagers in the car behind hers are taking "so damn long to order," according to the middle-aged couple in the car behind the teens.
Everybody in McDonald's drive-thru lane is dissatisfied.
And a flying beetle can't get off its back.
