![]() Lynn keeps her eyes on the rearview mirror.Īs the man pulls back his fist and lands it, with a violence she can almost feel, right into the boy’s face.Īs the boy crumples and falls, shielded from view by the parked car. There’s not even the slightest acknowledgement as she drives past-close enough to spot the spittle spraying from the man’s lips, close enough to catch the glazed, frightened look on the boy’s face. Father and son perhaps, the older man with his plump face squeezed red and tight with rage, thrusting a finger into the boy’s chest, hard enough to push him backwards a little with each angry jab. Two men, or a man and a boy, rather, a teenager. Although the two figures standing in front of the car-there is something off kilter there. There’s no sign of damage, not to it, not to the bicycle that’s leaning against the tree next to all the flowers and wreaths and hand-made signs that have festooned its trunk for months now. ![]() The car she thought had slewed off the side of the road is actually just parked at an awkward angle. Never mind that they make her feel so damn old. Never mind that they make her look like an accountant. Should stop pretending that she’s still in her thirties, that her eyesight is good enough for driving without them. Really, she should be wearing her glasses. Another accident, right where that Nelson girl was killed last summer in fact, and Lynn lifts her foot from the accelerator, squints her eyes against the early evening glare. At first, she thinks it’s yet another accident, here on this straight stretch of back road treacherous only for the speed it provokes in the young and the impatient.
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