He felt the tires leave the road.
It actually felt pretty cool, the sensation of taking off.
The only problem? The fifty-three foot trailer that had come to a stop in front of him.
As the truck’s taillights got closer, the red glow blurred by the downpour but clearly getting larger by the second, he wondered how bad it would hurt.
Maybe it’d be over fast.
Maybe he’d wake up in the hospital a few days from now in the worst pain of his life, numbed only slightly by a morphine drip. He had his seatbelt on, so it was a possibility.
But then again, he was going too fast for this to turn out OK, way too fast on a road this wet. And until he felt lift-off, he’d been distracted, not properly judging distances between vehicles and time needed to stop. What was it: One car length for every ten miles an hour, something like that?
And now, he was hydroplaning.
That was a cool term: “Hydroplaning”.
That’s what he thought about in those moments. He wasn’t sad, he wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t mad at himself for going too fast.
He was thinking about the narrative. He was hoping for “hydroplaning”. Not “Carl died in a car accident.” No: “Carl died hydroplaning.” That sounded so much more bad-ass, like an extreme sport.
You weren’t the passive victim of a tragedy. You went out Young Guns II-style: In a BLAZE OF GLORY.
He felt his stomach jump, like on a roller coaster.
He wondered if the c–