My best friend John and I are driving back to Minneapolis from my farm in North Dakota. We are 45 minutes (because in the Midwest, we describe distance with minutes and not miles) from the city and we’ve been eating Twizzlers and singing to the CDs I made specifically for this trip.
The weather has been perfect, but night has started to blanket the sky in dusky navy colors. Suddenly we notice a pile of cars, red brake lights flashing a warning, stopped in front of us. John hits the brakes.
At this point in time, three years removed, I do not remember if we were driving my car or his. All I remember is that it was beige.
“I can’t stop. The brakes aren’t working,” he says, his voice very flat.
The misty rain has turned to ice. The highway, upon which hundreds of cars travel daily…
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