by Mary Ogle
Nathaniel remembers this. The leather wrapped around the steering wheel stays cool beneath his grip. His fingers are clenched tight and his hands are losing feeling. Now they are as numb as the rest of him. He knows every dip and crack in the hard-packed dirt of the road. He knows which tree branch will strike the roof of the truck. He knows he will kill a man.
Nathaniel doesn't try to swerve when the hunched figure steps out in front of him. He remembers this. He doesn't flinch when the body flies up and over, hitting the windshield and leaving jagged cracks that disfigure his vision. The sound of the body rolling off the hood is like an echo and his feet leave the pedals as the truck rolls to a stop.