The trick is to stay alive. But most days, there are no choices left.
Mr. Flip is now the only survivor after the crash. A metal box of recorded frequencies. There is no lid to this box, no flaps that can open upwards. All tongue and no lips makes Mr. Flip a good mimic. If he can only stand up, if he can only shapeshift his way out of his natural boxlike configuration, then he will walk away from this carnage of smoke and twisted metal. He will wander until he will reach a town, perhaps, a roadside where he can hitch a ride home.
By sundown, Mr. Flip will have learned to ignore the noise. He will have his own feet to tread on the bones of sparrows, of roadkill grit. How they crackle like the broken fingerbones of sickly girls, their unrehearsed prayers turning into sighs.