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The
mechanic
wrestles
the
wheel
toward
the
ditch
,
and
I
wrestle
to
fucking
die
.
Now
.
The
amazing
miracle
of
death
,
when
one
second
you
're
walking
and
talking
,
and
the
next
second
,
you
're
an
object
.
I
am
nothing
,
and
not
even
that
.
Cold
.
Invisible
.
I
smell
leather
.
My
seat
belt
feels
twisted
like
a
straitjacket
around
me
,
and
when
I
try
to
sit
up
,
I
hit
my
head
against
the
steering
wheel
.
This
hurts
more
than
it
should
.
My
head
is
resting
in
the
mechanic
's
lap
,
and
as
I
look
up
,
my
eyes
adjust
to
see
the
mechanic
's
face
high
over
me
,
smiling
,
driving
,
and
I
can
see
stars
outside
the
driver
's
window
.
My
hands
and
face
are
sticky
with
something
.
Blood
?
Buttercream
frosting
.
The
mechanic
looks
down
.
"
Happy
Birthday
.
"
