The second I got inside my car, I locked the doors.
Then I gripped the steering wheel and screamed.
Not words.
Just sound.
Raw, broken sound that ripped up from somewhere deep in my chest.
I slammed the heel of my hand against the wheel once, then again.
I could still hear Nick saying it.
Yes. You were supposed to keep driving.
I bowed my head and cried so hard my whole body shook.
I was thirty-eight years old.
Husband. Father of two girls. Mortgage. Bills. School lunches. Dance recital fees. Car insurance. Grocery lists taped to the fridge.
And I had just been fired for not leaving a woman to die by the road.
I stayed in that parking lot until my breathing slowed enough for me to see straight.
Then I wiped my face with the back of my hand, started the engine, and drove home.
The drive should have taken ten minutes.
It felt like I was crossing a continent.
Every red light made me angrier.
Every stop sign made me replay the morning.
Her face.
That was what kept coming back.
A woman in a navy cardigan and sensible flats, one hand pressed hard against her chest, the other reaching out into empty air like she was trying to grab hold of the world before it tipped away from her.
If I had driven by, I would have seen that face in my sleep for the rest of my life.
I knew that.
So why did losing my job still feel like I had done something wrong?
By the time I pulled into the driveway, my hands were trembling again.
Our house was small, two bedrooms upstairs, one tiny office downstairs that doubled as a laundry room when life got messy.
The porch railing needed repainting.
One shutter hung a little crooked.
There was a pink scooter on the grass and a half-deflated rubber ball under the hydrangea bush.
Regular life.
Normal life.
The kind you work like hell to protect.
My wife, Emily, opened the front door before I even made it to the steps.
