I first noticed it high and to the left, near the top of my windshield. It flew, streaking slightly, towards my right front wheel. It was dirty yellow in the light of my headlights. Headlights that were cruddy and old as the plastic corroded. The tire must have popped though I don’t remember it. The car turned sharply and I over-corrected. The brakes must have slowed the car, but barely. I don’t think my heart had time to skip a beat, stop, or do much of anything. Maybe I forgot that too.

I survived. That felt like an afterthought.

The moon was new. The light wasn’t weightless and effervescent. It was heavy and inky; clinging to the ground and the grass. The air stank. Greasy. I once dated a girl I loved.

Auto-pilot. Police. I was going 75, but I said 60. I’d had 4 drinks, but I said 2. Nobody questioned it. I had crashed, but nobody cared. They had the decency to blame me for imposing on them.