You might think with all the coddling and babying that I’d be a sniffling, trembling mess, incapable of leaving the house, and too scared to look down to tie my shoes for fear of a tree falling on my head. But here’s the thing about my father—he always worried enough for the both of us. For all of us—Athenians, Americans, atheists, Adventists, and agnostics alike. He worried so much that I was never afraid of anything. There wasn’t enough room for all that fear, the what-ifs, second-guessing, and thinking ten steps ahead. I was never afraid of getting hurt, getting caught, or even getting killed. It’s childish, I know, especially given all I’ve seen that proves otherwise, but—and I wouldn’t even tell this to Teddy—secretly, I’ve always felt invincible.

I’m up to fifty, and the light has switched from red to green—a good sign. If it turned red, I’d have to do this experiment all over again. Our hit-and-run driver might be willing to blaze through a changing light, but I’m not. My feet plant firmly on the floorboard. And I’m right. Already this feels unnatural. Intentional.

I’m not saying I don’t experience fear—I’ve seen enough to worry about every female coed walking home alone at night, my mother teaching testosterone-filled young men one bad grade away from marching onto campus with a machine gun. Hell, half her colleagues look one frazzled tenure review away from burning the whole place down. Just read a day’s news section of the Athens Banner Herald—some asshole strangles a dog and hangs it on a pole, schoolmates attack an eight-year-old boy, a man admits to raping a woman and a child, a woman pistol-whips a teen, a brawl at an auto repair shop. It’s reverse evolution and frightening in its randomness and ridiculousness. But that’s why I chose this job. My fearlessness is a gift. I owe it to people like my father, all those coeds, and professors to put it to good use.

The base of the hill shallows beneath the light, so that the car slows before I reach the intersection and the hill creeps subtly upward as I skirt the crosswalk. A lone student lingers there, jacket pulled tight against the wind so I can only see a pale face, feet tapping side to side as they wait for me. Forty miles per hour. Thirty-five. Thirty.

It hits me as I cross the intersection: The witnesses were right. Not only did our driver not slam on the brakes, he pressed the gas.

In my rearview mirror, the student in the rain jacket runs across the street under the swaying green light.

Three

Wednesday, November 13, 8:00 A.M.