The collision rang her chin off her jeep's steering wheel. Her seatbelt cinched, dug into her waist. At first, the blood, tiny splotches Pollocked across the glass, confused her. There'd been a cat, black with white feet, galloping across the two-lane, and she'd swerved rather than pump the brakes.

Her fingers found the release on her seatbelt, slid the gear shift into park. She spilled from the jeep, sandals heavy on cracked macadam, walked into the halo of her headlights.

Arms jumbled. A head slick with red. Her knees went as she dropped to the body's side. A mosquito buzzed into her ear. Recognition. She must have passed him on Old Route 49 at least ten times, day and night. Always carrying a gallon of milk.

Not half an hour before, her brother-in-law had walked her to her car, hugged her too close, brushed his hand over her left breast, told her it was good seeing her. She'd been worried about what she'd say to Corinne tomorrow, if she would tell her, if she should.

In the darkness around her, the air smelled sweet like privet, the man so much more human in death.