“Most pedestrian-related accidents—at least those I’ve seen—happen when a person steps off a curb, so they’re hit from the side. Usually, the driver sees the pedestrian too late and slams on their brakes. This makes the bumper nosedive so the first point of contact is with the lower leg—it’s so common that there’s a name for pedestrian-car injuries—they’re called the Waddell’s triad: basically, leg fracture, organ injury, head injury.” She taps her leg, stomach, and head, like the children’s song in reverse, and then, reading my thoughts, hums “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” while repeating leg, organ, head, and head.

“Too soon?”

I roll my eyes. “Have some couth.” But I’m humming, too. No Waddell’s triad for our victim, at least not that involves the bumper down.

I’m convinced our driver didn’t brake.

By the time I slip the key into my front door, the world outside has transitioned into that inky darkness that’s particular to late autumn. The street’s unusually quiet, but then it’s a weeknight and all the kiddos who had been zooming around on their bikes earlier are tucked in bed for school tomorrow morning. The neighborhood’s still dressed in orange and black. Yard stakes and grim reapers and engorged spiders left over from Halloween festivities cast strange shadows under streetlamps. I smell wood from a fire burning, although it doesn’t seem cold enough yet, and hear the uncanny laugh track from a television through an open window.