He wasn’t speeding but suddenly the car flipped over twice before it stopped. He remembers the windshield swinging back and forth, the world going sideways, and hands. Too many hands pulling him free before the tank caught fire.
Firefighters told him he'd crawled out alone; no one else had been on that stretch of highway for six miles. He believed them until the bruises came up: four distinct sets of fingerprints on each arm, matching no one who'd touched him. He drives past mile marker forty every day now. For one second, every day, the guardrail looks bent in a way it wasn't the day before and then it isn't, again.