It was nearly two in the morning when the road betrayed us.
My wife and I were driving home from a friend’s party, the kind that stretches too late because no one wants the night to end. The highway was almost completely empty, a thin ribbon of asphalt cutting through darkness and open fields. There were no streetlights, no houses—just the hum of the engine and the sound of us talking softly, already half-asleep.
Once. Twice.
And died.
