I am sharing a car doing 130km/hr in a 90 zone with a mumbling, bumbling Arcadian from New Brunswick at the wheel, an ex-convict and a 21-year-old First Nations kid who looks up to the aforementioned dubious characters. The two crazies in the front have smoked half a pack of cigarettes each since Victoria 50kms ago and we are bound for a demolition site to strip asbestos tile floors. This is a long way from the days when I was getting paid to travel and ski. Tagging along with this raucous is what it seems I must do though if I am to earn a cent this week.