Slim piece of plastic with a digitally-reproduced photograph and letters formed of dozens of tiny dots of ink. Height, weight, age, eyecolor. Birthday. Social-security number. Name. Driver's license number.

Freedom.

She smiled and tucked the card into her left hip pocket. In her right hand, a set of grubby keys clinked, the chrome long since worn off to show the brass beneath.

One key slid home, and she turned it, unlocking the door with a satisfying 'clock' sound. The door opened and she slid across the smooth vinyl seat, behind the wheel.

The second key snicked into the ignition and with a quick twist of the wrist, 341 cubic inches of postwar materialistic excess roared to life.

She dropped the gearshift into 'D' and pressed her foot down on the accelerator. The car obeyed, engine rumbling smoothly as she peeled off the curb.

And a cigarette smouldered in the grass after being hurled to the ground: Spike ran out from behind the trees and realized his car keys weren't in his duster pocket anymore, just in time to see the DeSoto completely decimate the residential neighborhood's 20 MPH speed limit. He howled in frustration at the disappearing car, and as Buffy watched him in the rearview mirror, a grin split her face.