Photo, Snap, Shot by Joanna Campbell Slan

The structure was old, sound enough to handle a bigger car, but too open and fragile for my taste. Someone had added wooden guardrails, only for show. I’d paid scant attention to the structure on my way to the meeting.
    As I passed the crossroad, my peripheral vision caught a dark blur. A car traveled at a right angle toward me. Overgrown bushes obscured most of the vehicle. But I heard the whine of a large engine. The car was moving fast.
    I glanced around.
    My cell phone rang. I slowed down and grabbed at it.
    “Hello?”
    Nothing.
    The hesitation cost me.
    I looked up.
    A huge black car was coming right at my side.
    My front wheels faced the bridge. If the big black car smacked my back wheels now, I’d be knocked sidewise into the culvert. Beneath me swirled a swollen creek.
    If I were hit, I’d go down the embankment. I’d tumble end over end. My ragtop wouldn’t protect me. My car was too old to have a roll bar. I’d land upside down in the water. And I’d drown.
    My heart skipped a beat. Sweat broke out on my upper lip.
    My mind raced through various scenarios. Stop? Go? My impulse was to slam the brakes. But my mind overrode my instincts. If I stopped, I’d be hit, and hit hard.
    My pulse quickened. I swallowed. My palms were wet with perspiration. I froze.
    If that car hit me, I would go over the side. My car would flip. I would die. A slow, lonely death.
    I thought of Anya. I remembered how she’d reacted to George’s death.
    I didn’t want to die.
    I stomped the gas.

My wheels spun. Gravel pinged the back bumper. The car stuttered. I mashed my accelerator hard. I gripped the steering wheel. My car slid a foot or so to one side. The wheels couldn’t catch traction. A cloud of dust flew up around me. The spinning stopped. I moved forward.
    I shot out the other side of the bridge like a spit wad from a kid’s mouth. Once I cleared the bridge, my right foot jumped to the middle. I literally stood on the brake pedal. My body fought the seat belt as I rose up.
    But my car skidded to a stop.
    Behind me, the black vehicle zoomed past the spot where I’d been and into an adjacent blind lane.
    The steering wheel bucked my grip as the car reacted. For a heartbeat, my car skidded out of my control. The backside fishtailed, this way and that. But it stopped. Thank God, it stopped. I closed my eyes and said a prayer of thanksgiving. Then I heard a honk. Another mother had pulled up behind me. Judy was waiting for me to drive on. I had blocked the lane. Raising my trembling hand, I gave her a weak wave and continued on my way.
    “St. Louis. Second only to Boston for bad drivers,” I muttered to myself.
    Burned into my brain was a sensation of panic. I kept imagining that fatal plunge to the water. I blinked and brought up a sensation of vertigo, of being turned topsy-turvey.
    I could have been killed.
    All the way to Big Dawg’s, I trembled like a leaf in a tornado.
    Big Dawg’s is a hole in the wall. Fluorescent paint highlights menu items and welcomes customers with “We are Glad to See and Serve You.”
    Detweiler was waiting for me right inside the door. Other cops were scattered around the seating area. I sighed with relief. I was glad the place was crowded. No way did I want to start trouble with his wife, Brenda. She was muscular and athletic, and frankly, she scared me. She’d showed up at the store to “talk with me,” and Dodie had shooed her away.
    I’m a lover not a fighter. Well, mainly mostly.
    Cigarette smoke prickled my nostrils. I wheezed. St. Louis has the distinction of being the #1 Worst City for Asthmatics in the nation. The fact we don’t have a cohesive non-smoking in restaurant legislation is one reason. Another is pollen. But you can’t arrest a tree.
    I glanced down to see a duo of crushed Marlboros in the ashcan. You could puff away at Big Dawg’s. Rats. I hoped the offending smoker had already left. Otherwise, my allergies would really kick in, and I’d be mopping my nose