Если я останусь

           BothTeddyandIwereraisedonthegoofytunesofJonathanRichman,whoisMomandDad’smusicalpatronsaint.

           Oncethemusicalselectionshavebeenmade,weareoff.Theroadhassomepatchesofsnow,butmostlyit’sjustwet.ButthisisOregon.Theroadsarealwayswet.Momusedtojokethatitwaswhentheroadwasdrythatpeopleranintotrouble."Theygetcocky,throwcautiontothewind,drivelikea**holes.Thecopshaveafielddaydolingoutspeedingtickets."

           Ileanmyheadagainstthecarwindow,watchingthesceneryzipby,atableauofdarkgreenfirtreesdottedwithsnow,wispystrandsofwhitefog,andheavygraystormcloudsupabove.It’ssowarminthecarthatthewindowskeepfoggingup,andIdrawlittlesquigglesinthecondensation.

           Whenthenewsisover,weturntotheclassicalstation.IhearthefirstfewbarsofBeethoven’sCelloSonatano.3,whichwastheverypieceIwassupposedtobeworkingonthisafternoon.Itfeelslikesomekindofcosmiccoincidence.Iconcentrateonthenotes,imaginingmyselfplaying,feelinggratefulforthischancetopractice,happytobeinawarmcarwithmysonataandmyfamily.Iclosemyeyes.

           Youwouldn’texpecttheradiotoworkafterward.Butitdoes.

           Thecariseviscerated.Theimpactofafour-tonpickuptruckgoingsixtymilesanhourplowingstraightintothepassengersidehadtheforceofanatombomb.Ittoreoffthedoors,sentthefront-sidepassengerseatthroughthedriver’s-sidewindow.