I felt it when he died. I was lying on the road along with the glass and the remains of our rear view mirror. Evan knew he was going to die, I think. And I was so close myself; a cut on my forehead running down my cheek, down my arm. Bruises. Blood.

He carried me out of the car… even then, some part of me knew something was wrong. He used my cell phone to call 911 because his was crushed. He told them we needed help. We were hurt, we were… dying…

I was throbbing all over… covered in my blood, is blood, glass, tar. Barely conscious, yet so aware. But where was the other driver? Our car was wrecked, but I saw no other car. Evan answered me. Funny, I hadn’t realized I’d said it out loud. They left, he said. He didn’t even get a look at the plates.

And he sank down beside me, leaning on the tar for support. I heard sirens down the road. “Good,” he mumbled. “I love you. I’ll see you when I wake up.”

He closed his eyes as the red lights came nearer.

We wouldn’t speak again.