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That Night

When I realized the type of “family” man my father really was.

The acrid stench of burning rubber yanks me out of sleep before I even realize I was drifting.

The world is sideways.

I'm crumpled against the passenger side door, earbuds still in, music muffled beneath the high-pitchedscreechof tires against pavement. My favorite band is still playing. A love song—totally wrong for this moment.

But the noise that cuts through it is real.

It’s the sound of metal, speed, chaos. It’shim.

I jerk upright and scan the cabin. My father is gripping the wheel with one hand, the other raised like a conductor in a symphony he’s too drunk to lead. His mouth moves to the words of some old country song, eyes glassy, distant, unbothered. Thecar veers wildly between lanes, a pinball bouncing off imaginary rails.

Cold air blasts from the vents like a freezer door left open, but the scent inside the car is warm. Thick with overpriced cologne. Sweat. Whiskey.

He jerks the wheel around a minivan, laughing.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shove my seatbelt off and launch forward, climbing into the front seat. My pulse is everywhere at once—neck, chest, ears.

“Oh, son,” he drawls, like we’re having a road trip moment. “Don’t you just love this song? Gotye really nailed it.Somebody that I used to know…”

“Pull over.Now.”

“Lila’s not answering my calls anymore,” he slurs, ignoring me. “Says she deserves more than a relationship behind closed doors.”

“Brake!” I grab the wheel as we skim the shoulder. “Hit the fucking brakes!”

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, like I’m being dramatic. He taps the pedal.

The car lurches.

Forward.

Faster.

“Shit,” I whisper. “Dad—please—pull over.”

“Iamslowing down.” He sounds hurt. “You’ve got to stop yelling and justlisten.”

Eighty. Ninety. One-ten.

Up ahead, the road curves. Too sharp to make at this speed. Headlights flash in the opposite lane. Someone honks. The wheel jerks.

“She says she wants more,” he says dreamily. “But I want her. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Then the sirens start. Blue and white strobe through the rearview mirror. A cruiser’s closing in.

Time stretches.

Then shatters.

The car flips—metal screams, glass bursts, gravity disappears. My head cracks against something hard. The roof caves. My vision blacks out, then snaps back in.

We slam to the pavement. Right side up.