A twisted car, its tires mangled with glass, poisoned our front yard. Jagged fingers drooped through the windshield, strumming the country road.
My sister’s nose squished against her bedroom window. The crash woke our family, but only I stood outside, flirting with death’s whiskey breath. Thick and lavender, it conducted an orchestra; cornstalks tangoed at a crisp tempo, modeling refined musicality.
I knelt, brushing the duct-taped bumper. The fingers trembled; I grabbed them.
“I’m here,” I whispered.
The cornfield froze, encompassing us. But when death snapped its fingers, the grand finale commenced.