Write

100 feet away. That's where I was when the car crashed through our fence. I was watering the yard, and I thought I was watching the kids, but I had my back to them. We live on the highway. Four acres stretch out behind us. Plenty of space, I figured. But the last owner built right up against the road, the better to show off the building. I wasn't looking. I wasn't thinking. There was Bill, eight years old, all skin and bone and muscle, and he's teaching six year-old Jenny how to toss a football, only she can't quite reach around the ball, and she was getting frustrated and he came over to show her how easy it was. How easy it was for him. It was a perfect day. You couldn't ask for more sunshine, for fewer bugs. The kind of day that defies the earth for anything to go wrong in it. And I'm standing there, hose in hand, turning toward the bushes that line the front of the house, thinking, "My God, I've done it. This family, this house, this job. It's just... Its' too much." And I really believe that. Believed it. How much I had. How much we all had. Embarrassment of riches. It's weird how much I wasn't paying attention, how little I even noticed when the sedan crashed through the