She stopped. She couldn’t go on.
The boy got out of the other side of the SUV. He came around. He stood next to his mother.
“That’s when the truck came,” he said quietly.
I looked at him.
Fifteen years old. Tall and skinny, the way boys are at fifteen. Dark hair falling in his eyes. A gray hoodie. The scar on his face and neck, shiny and pink.
He looked at me with steady brown eyes.
“The truck driver fell asleep,” the boy said. “He drifted onto the shoulder. He didn’t see them. He hit your daughter and the man while they were standing by the guardrail. Right next to me. I was lying on the ground in her jacket. And the truck hit them, and…”
He stopped. His jaw tightened.
“And I didn’t get hit,” he said. “I was lying down. It went right over where I was. Right past me. It hit them. And not me.”
