It began with the car accident.
The wrecked car in the fast lane, the drowsy driving sign just ahead, another car peeling out of his way with less-than-desirable visibility. They swerve, thinking of course they could clear the parked car to their left.
They could not.
I get the call from his dad, the police have his contact information. Markus and I watch from car seats – wide-eyed as Martin and Ben drive back and forth to try and see anything more than a shattered side mirror on the side of the freeway.
It is not yet 4am.
I call the dispatcher, speak with an officer – begging profusely for more help when the Sargent calls back. He has scheduled a helicopter. They shuttled the car to the wrecking yard, stopping at the casino's store for security, photos, a missing person report. A container of chicken nuggets for a post-frenzied-morning snack.
Back home, I get the text with the words "they found him" and hit the floor with my knees to hear the distinct sound of a man saying he is alive, hypothermic, dehydrated and burns from the airbags exploding onto his hands above.
I unload the remaining photos – the rest of him is unscathed – and after Martin lays down for his nap, I find myself thinking back on the freeway picking tiny kaleidoscopes of ruby glass and cold metal from the concrete.
What’s with today? he says.
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