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I-70 Westbound, East of Oak Grove

Back at their apartment, he wonders why she doesn’t answer his text.

Out here in a ditch at the 36 yardstick, twisted metal and shattered glass, broken body and bleeding skin. A stranger holding her head in his lap, brushing her hair away from her sweaty face, praying to a busy god.

The Highway Patrol is coming from Grain Valley. Flashing lights and screaming sirens, stuck in four-miles of construction. But they needn’t be in a hurry. There’s nothing to be done here but take the report, carry away the remains.

Back at his apartment, he wonders why she won’t answer her phone.