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He looks out the windshield and sees only a road so dark that the headlights barely illuminate both lanes. Trees crowd in on either side. It’s a regional road, without any markings, and he doesn’t recognize it.

He squints and blinks, and he tells himself it’s the rain and darkness, but he knows it’s also his eyesight. He’s wearing his glasses—he taps them to be sure—but the optometrist recently adjusted them to favor close-up vision. After all, he doesn’t drive anymore, and he spends so much of his days reading. The only way he can identify the forest as a forest is by the shape of those shadows.

Edgar takes deep breaths. Another person might shake off his misgivings and lean into the dream explanation, but Edgar is a rationalist. A professor of philosophy. Everything in this scenario is logical except for the fact that he shouldn’t be driving, which can be explained by an early episode of dementia. Therefore, it’s almost certain that he’s awake and this is real, and he needs to handle that.

Pull over. Call for help.

But if he calls for help, they might mistake him for some dotty old codger who needs to be taken to the nearest hospital for observation, while Sunila is home alone.

There’s no one else on the road, and he can handle this until he sees a place to pull over. Then he’ll call a friend and explain the situation.

For now, he needs to slow down and—

White light arcs across the road. Edgar stares in confusion. Then a person appears. A man, running toward the road, and Edgar should brake, but he can’t seem to move, and he opens his mouth to scream as the car keeps going.

The man stops. Edgar catches a glimpse of the fellow—huge and hulking, brown skin, hoodie pulled up and waving his arms, as if he needs help, and Edgar has this terrible, shameful sense that he wouldn’t have pulled over even if he could. But it doesn’t matter, because Edgar can’t move. The car speeds past the man, who’s shouting something, and then Edgar sees that light again, only now it’s a flashlight held by a woman waving it madly, shouting for him to stop, please stop. And then he sees why.

A car on the road. Right in front of him. Edgar’s foot goes for the brake, and to his shock, it actually moves now. But he’s too slow. By the time he hits it, he’s slamming into the stopped vehicle.

The thunder of the crash. And then pain. Sudden, unbelievable pain.

TWELVEELLIE

The crash is terrible. The screech and crunch of metal and then a horrible silence, broken only by the tinkling of shattered safety glass.

We’re on the ground and Henry leaps off me, babbling apologies, genuine fear in his voice, as if I might think he was doing something untoward instead of saving me from a car braking suddenly on wet asphalt.

Henry helps me up, and we both run for the vehicle. It’s smaller than I thought. Not much bigger than my little sedan, and seeing how it’s crunched into the SUV, the front end as crumpled as the trunk on my car …

“Front ends are supposed to crumple,” Henry says quickly, as if reading my thoughts. “It cushions the impact.”

We’re still running when we reach the driver’s door, and Henry slides on the wet asphalt, thudding into the car. The thump seems as loud as the crash, but the figure slumped over the airbag doesn’t move.

Henry wrenches the door. When it sticks, I say, “Where’s the crowbar?,” but he wrenches harder, and the door flies open, and I shine the light in.

In the driver’s seat is an elderly man, with sparse white hair over a liver-spotted scalp. He’s collapsed against the steering wheel as the airbag deflates. He seems to be wearing … pajamas?

Henry touches the man’s shoulder. “Sir?” He waits only a moment for a reaction before his hands fly to the man’s neck. He narrates his actions as he goes—I’m a paramedic, you’ve been in an accident, I’m going to check your pulse.

Henry’s exhale tells me he feels one even before he says, “Your pulse is strong, sir. I need to conduct a brief examination before I take you out of this vehicle. If you can hear me, please respond.”

No answer.

“That’s me touching your shoulder. You’re going to feel—”

The man jolts awake with a scream, and Henry backpedals, hands raised.

“You’ve been in an accident, sir. I’m an off-duty paramedic.”

At the sound of Henry’s voice, the man’s head whips his way. He’s wearing glasses, and they hang, broken, but he doesn’t move to fix them. He just stares at Henry.

“D-don’t,” the man stammers. “Please. I have money. You can have the car.”

“Sir,” Henry says, with the barest touch of resignation. “You have been in a car accident. My name is Henry Benson. I’m an off-duty paramedic.”

The man breathes hard, eyes wide and rolling as he tries to shrink back into the vehicle.

“Would you like to see my ID, sir?” Henry asks.