The Sun Does Shine: How I Found Life and Freedom on Death Row

Hinton admits to having stolen a car before his eventual imprisonment. While it gives him the ability to travel and enjoy freedom, the car soon symbolizes his guilt. No matter how much care he puts into the car—installing a sound system, washing and waxing it—the car begins to weigh down on him. He has been driving his mother around in this car, but can no longer bear his guilt: He would have to confess his crime to his mother.

In other instances, Hinton would imagine himself on an airplane, with a bed all to himself. He could be transported, at least in his mind, to another place and time. He would also, however, struggle on the van ride from the county jail to Holman prison. He imagines the van crashing. He observes, through the window, other vehicle passengers moving—literally or metaphorically—from here to there: “I saw a black man, about my age, drive by in a Buick. ‘Watch out,’ I murmured out loud. ‘They’re going to come for you too’” (82).

Finally, upon getting a ride away from prison by his friend Lester, he notes his own weariness about what cars meant to him before, and what they mean to him now.