“What the hell?” Danny jumped up and tore out of the kitchen where he’d been reading his mail and enjoying a quiet lunch with his sister, Elaine. Startled, she looked up from the newspaper.
“Danny?”
He ran through the foyer, out the front door, and then leaped down the three porch steps. He was in good shape for his age. And even though Elaine had no shoes on, she chased after him, alarmed.
“Danny, stop! What’s happening?”
Something was seriously wrong. So wrong that her brother could do nothing but run—not talk, not explain, not even make eye contact, simply run toward the driveway. So, she ran after him—shoeless. Elaine felt every single sticky desiccated foxtail and spikey burr she stepped on, but she didn’t slow down because Danny’s desperation was fuel. He wrenched open the driver’s side door of his Ford F150 with such force she thought he might pull it from the hinges.
“Danny!”
“Get in the car!”
The car was in gear when Elaine slid into the passenger seat. She caught her breath as she slammed shut the door of the now moving truck. Danny was known as the worst driver in the family. This was settled family lore. He crashed one family car after a long shift
