Highway 349
His Plymouth Valiant, the car he'd had since he was sixteen, lay overturned in the ditch. After he had crawled out from under it, Tom sat by the road. It was completely dark, save the headlights pointing, cockeyed and aimless, out into a field. Tom lit a cigarette and inhaled. Some blood had dried on his cheek and he could feel it crack and flake. Jesus Christ, he thought. Jesus. What a mess. After three cigarettes Tom stood up. He felt weak and nauseous. He thought for a moment about turning the headlights off, to save the battery. He laughed. The battery? He had three or four hours of walking ahead of him. He was in the absolute middle of nowhere. But the stars were bright, inspiring, ancient. The car was just a hunk of metal after all. Nothing but a pile of steel and wires.
