Will Ferguson

leaving a churned trail of mulch and wet leaves in its wake.

Into the scentless winter air: the seeping odour of radiator fluid, of gasoline.

Within the folded metal of the vehicle: a buckled dashboard, bent steering wheel, more glass and—in the middle—something that had once been a man. White hair, wet against the skull, matted now in a thick red mud.

It didn’t matter; Laura had nothing to park.

It didn’t matter; Laura had nothing to park.

They come in every colour, like Life Savers.

Warren, as bulgy as Laura was thin. Family photos always looked like an ad for an eating disorders clinic

“I deal with traffic fatalities. I’ll be overseeing this investigation. I’m very sorry about your father.”

No, you’re not. Without traffic fatalities, you’d be out of a job. “Thank you.”

The city, that’s who did this.

You want to arrest someone, arrest the fuckin’ mayor.”

Traces of the accident would slowly vanish—except for one distinct streak of rubber, an extended skid on the asphalt where a second set of tire treads led toward the guardrail beside the bridge. Those marks would last a long, long while.