Anne Brisden

The car wobbled and weaved across the highway by some miracle dodging trucks and trees and a bit of livestock.

I don't know if it was a cow I hit,

or one of those ghost trees they talk about around here that appear out of nowhere.

But the last thing I remember was headbutting the windshield.

When I woke up, my mouth was full of dirt and blood.

I lifted my head and tried opening my eyes.

I could see out of one, but the other was clamped shut.

I'd been thrown from the car and was lying in a muddy ditch.

The Datsun to the side of me, its windshield smashed.

The door slung open and steam pouring from the bonnet.

Something warm oozed from the corner of my bad eye down my cheek.

I tried getting to my feet and fell down again.

I swallowed a few breaths, then crawled over to the shotgun lying in the mud a few feet from me.

I used it to haul myself up and get out of the ditch, onto the side of the red dirt road.

All my life I've been walking the roads skirting the town.

I thought I knew all of them.

I didn't have a clue where I was.

There was nobody around, and no buildings, save a run-down hay shed.

I started to walk, which wasn't easy.

I could still shoot myself, of course, but suddenly it didn't seem such a good idea.