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The Last Thing He Saw Is Not The Windshield Shattering

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The last thing he saw was not the windshield shattering, its fragments reflecting shards of light that reminded onlookers of a grotesque, snowy Christmas. It was not the look of terror on his wife’s face as she saw the truck speeding towards them. It was not even the truck itself, a sixteen-wheeled death sentence handed down for an untold crime. The last thing he saw was himself. In the rearview mirror of the convertible ahead of him, his reflection was distant, almost insignificant. And yet that recognition of self still gave him a small sense of stability in a world that he knew would soon lack any such comfort. And then there was black. His wife must be watching Grey’s Anatomy again. Words like “stat” and “O-2 sats” and “tachycardia” flooded his hearing. As soon as he opened his eyes, he knew he would see a hospital filled with unrealistically attractive doctors more interested in each other than their patients. He prepared a witty remark, and readied himself for the chastisement he knew Mrs. Stephens would feel obligated to give. She defended that show like it was a favorite child. But when he made the conscious decision to speak, when his brain ordered his vocal chords to vibrate and his mouth to open, nothing happened. There was no awkward throat clearing or even a twitch of the lips. There was just his body, ignoring his demands that it move, that it feel, that it do something. It was at this point that he began to focus on the words coming from the

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