It was my fault--the accident. There's no way Win would have missed seeing that truck, especially at this intersection, where the land actually rises a few feet higher than the flat prairie around it.
Not if I hadn't blown smoke in his face.
It was my fault we were running late and had to take the Hard Road with its four lanes and faster speeds. It was my fault we went at all.
Now all I can do is sit on this chunk of granite near that old rockpile they call Buena Vista Mount and pray to all the gods in the universe that my husband came through as good as I did--or better. Because even though nothing hurts and there's not a scratch on me, I can't seem to move.
I don't remember how I got here, but I do remember the ferocity of the noise when I first opened my eyes, how the air around me vibrated with sirens, screams and shouting, with the scrape of metal and the whine of it being pulled apart. It's quieter now, but I still see the rescuers in their lime-green jackets and gray helmets scurrying about on the highway and in the ditch. Which is odd, come to think of it, because it's full-on summer, when the tall grass and weeds that surround Buena Vista Mount should totally block any view of the highway. Someone has trampled down a wide swath of the brush, leaving a chaos of footprints.