The skid. The truck goes into a skid on black ice. Slams into the guardrail, and the guardrail crumples like plastic. And now the truck has overturned, the children’s screams abruptly cease.

He is crawling out of the truck. All his strength is required. Yelling at the children—Come on! C’mon! Follow Daddy!

Yelling for them, but can’t get back into the fucking truck. Tries, but can’t get back. Tugs at the door handle. Thumps the (cracked) window with a fist. A part of him knows it is hopeless.

It’s over. No hope. You are fucked.

She’d been the one who’d wanted them. Sober, saying, Kids will change us, Earle. Wait and see. Give us something to live for, not just us.

She’d begged. She’d pleaded. Licking him up and down with her cool, wet tongue he would recall as hot, scalding.

Kids will be like Heaven to us, Earle. People like us, we won’t get into Heaven, they will shut the door on us. But we can peek inside and watch them, see? That’s the kids.

He’d never forgiven her for saying such things.

Like the two of them were not enough. The kind of feeling he had for her, which was unique in his life, like a river rushing through a desert, making the dead land come alive again—that meant nothing to her.

Calling after him. Stumbling in the dark. Half drunk, or high on pills. Lay down and couldn’t lift her head. Ten, twelve hours. Through the morning and into the afternoon and into early evening. How she’d self-medicate when a migraine came piercing her skull.

Saying, I can’t do it anymore, Earle. The way you look at me.

There’s no oxygen for me to breathe. It’s just—I tried—but …

The way he’d followed her around when he was supposed to be at work. Checked on her—if her car was parked in the driveway. Called her a dozen times a day on her cell phone. Calling their mutual friends. Guy she’d worked for, he’d suspected her of fucking before they were married and, more he thought about it, possibly after as well.

Sick, he’d felt. Fever in the blood. Infection like hepatitis C he couldn’t shake.

Yet incredulous, hearing the woman’s words, it was sounding like she’d prepared. Or someone had prepared for her. Asking her, what’re you saying? Because it had to be a joke. Hadn’t he just made a down payment on a Dodge SUV for her? Wanting to see her smile again. Smile at him. And the kids, taking pride in Daddy.

Driving them to school. Picking them up from school. Silver-green vehicle, classy. He’d gotten a bargain on it, pre-used, good as new, joked with the dealer he’d be making payments on it until he was fucking retired or dead.