The road out to Belles-Faire was slick, the water beading across it as the steady rain became a downpour. My wipers were going full steam and I was doing my best to see between the streams of water racing down my windshield. As I neared the turn that would take me to our house, a blur emerged at top speed from one of the driveways.
Fuck! Another car!
I slammed on the brakes and the Jag began to spin. As I drove into the skid, trying to regain control, the other car loomed large and I realized I was headed straight for it. Holy fuck, this was bad—
this was so bad
. I considered jumping from the car—I could do it and live, but then my Jag would become a missile bearing down on the incoming vehicle without any constraint.
So I did what I could. Muscles and reflexes took over as I attempted to gain control of the spinning car. Closer . . . closer, the other car was in front of me now and also skidding into circles. And then, everything blurred as my Jag carried me into a crazy dance directly into the other car’s embrace.
The crash was surprisingly muffled, but then a loud shriek filled the air as metal slid along metal and my airbag deployed. It was like being hit with a sledge hammer. As my Jag rolled to a stop, I realized that I was still sitting there, still intact. Instinct took over—and I forced my hands to unbuckle my seat belt, then struggled to open the door. I half climbed, half fell out of my car, stumbling out of the way. I’d seen too many movies where the cars went up in flames, but so far that didn’t seem to be happening. After a moment when there didn’t seem to be any flames, I patted myself down. I was okay. Jarred but all right. I turned my attention to the other car.
The heel on my boot was broken, so I limped over and yanked open the driver door, which was a mangled mess. My strength allowed me to pry it loose, though. With growing relief, I saw that the only occupant in the car seemed to be the driver—a youngish woman. But she looked unconscious, and I could only pray that she wasn’t dead.
