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And because she had taken that brief break from thinking about his death, which she had been thinking about for four years, a break that had to do with having her face smashed in, a break that had to do with nearly dying herself, because of that very brief uplifting rest, the grief came back triplefold.

It was a sock in the gut and she lost her breath, which also may have had to do with the airbag and maybe a fractured rib.

She’d had a glimpse of something as they tumbled over on the pavement and then slid down the embankment on the roof of the van — every future moment would be without him.

Everything to come would not have David in it. She hadn’t really looked that far ahead yet.

Now she saw.

A door had slammed between the past and the present, with the same kind of force that had driven her into the windshield. Her stepfather was behind that door. There would be no reprieve from this, no let-up.

Colleen would become whoever and David would not see.

She couldn’t ask, Are you proud? She remembered the dress she had worn to the funeral, but she could not think what shoes she had worn. This is what grieved her, hanging upside down in the van on the side of the highway with her nose most likely broken. She had wanted to preserve every detail of the funeral. But she could not for the life of her remember what shoes.

What happened? she said.

We hit a moose.

That was some phone conversation.

Or we hit something, he said.

You were asleep at the wheel.

I should have broken up with my girlfriend a long time ago.

Now it’s too late.

I was suddenly struck is what happened, he said. She tried to think of the shoes. She could see herself getting dressed, brushing her hair, she’d put in tortoiseshell combs, she could see the tights — she never wore tights but she’d bought a pair for the funeral.

The next thing you’re in the grave, Russell said. The water on the roof seemed to be rising. It occurred to Colleen the van might be resting on some kind of ridge and what if it gave and they sank to the bottom of what might be a deep lake and what if they were never heard from again. Brown suede high heels. She’d worn Jennifer Galway’s prom shoes to David’s funeral. Jennifer Galway had put her arm around Colleen in the parking lot of the funeral home and gave her a little pinch. She’d pinched her arm to keep Colleen from crying.

My stepfather died, she said.

And you’re out hitchhiking in the dark.

I’m out in the dark, all by my lonesome.

What would your stepfather think of that?

I guess we’ll never know.

Because we almost died ourselves here, he said.

Maybe we are dead. He turned and looked at her then and her chin, which he could see from the light in the dash, was covered in blood.

I don’t want children, he said. Colleen thought suddenly of her mother.

Oh my God, she said. How angry her mother was going to be when she found out Colleen had nearly died. Her mother could not afford, emotionally speaking, to have anyone else she knew come anywhere near death, not remotely near, ever again.

I’ve got a couple of nieces, Russell said.

I’m Colleen, she said. The water had definitely stopped rising. She wanted to get out of the van. She should never have said her name.

A couple of nieces are plenty, Colleen.

But your girlfriend, she said. She could see Russell wasn’t ready to leave the van. They might sit there forever as far as he was concerned.

My girlfriend can’t take too much more.

Are my teeth broken?

You’ve got blood.

That’s from my nose, but are my teeth?

Smile at me. Jesus, you’re pretty.

I’m covered in blood.

But you’re. What are you? You’re up to no good. Let me get a tissue. The box of Kleenex that had been on the dash was turning in the water below them, a tissue stood up like the sail of a boat. Russell reached down and snatched the tissue and he handed it to Colleen.

This is for free, Colleen. There’s only one life. There’s not the life you are living and the life you might have lived. Do you know what I’m saying?

This has been informative, Colleen