Our Rural Road
Usually, it was minor things at the mouth of the road. Collisions into the guardrail that mussed up a front fender and little else. The loud squeak of breaks and the cloud of white steam from burnt tire rubber and then maybe voices in dissent. Never the need for an ambulance.
...that both hope and fear are just emotional hallucinations projected on a reality that doesn’t care. The future is a rabid dog. It doesn’t love you. It doesn’t hate you. It just bites.