I knew that license plate.
One figure climbed out. My father, moving stiffly!
I saw him take out his phone and dial someone.
“He’s not moving, he’s not moving!” my father said, panicking on the call. “I know I said I’d only scare him, but he was on his way back to meet her at the prom!”
“The stupid boy swerved harder than I thought, Sylvia!” my father shouted.
I couldn’t breathe.
Terry had clipped his phone to the dash with a voice memo app running that morning. He liked recording himself singing on drives. It kept running after the crash, close enough to catch every word my father said while standing over the ditch.
“He wouldn’t take the money, Sylvia. He wouldn’t take it, and now look…”
“I’ll call an ambulance. Wait. Just… wait a minute. Let me think,” my father said on the call.
