Halliwood

For two weeks, I had to drive through the intersection at least four times a day. Sometimes more. What used to be the windshield of my Mazda was still sprinkled across the center divider, growing more granulated by the day. It sparkled as the sun hit it in the mornings, twinkled a cruel reminder as the headlights of my rental car shone across it when I made my way home in the depths of the desert night. He hated that intersection far more than I ever would, closing his eyes to block out flashbacks of the wreck as we passed through. Every day. At least four times a day. For two weeks. That's 56 chances to relive the horror, at a bare minimum. There's little wonder we fled Las Vegas as fast as we possibly could.When I got the call that morning, it was him. I knew he was alive. He told me to look out the second-floor window and I'd see the scene of the accident. All I could see was an ambulance. I threw on shoes and started running. And when I got to the end of the block an...