The shards of glass pierce his sternum and embed themselves in the right ventricle of a now useless organ.
Chris Daughtry’s Pokerface cover plays on a CD he was embarrassed to have in his car.
The brakes become purely decorative as the car hydroplanes.
She skips to the next song; it sounds like Chris Daughtry.
She promises it’ll make sense when the record stops.
He asks her why she tried to kiss him.
They pass a speed limit sign posting a 65 mph speed limit.
They pass 65 mph.
His pulse quickens.
She places her hand on the inside of his upper thigh.
She says she can make him very comfortable.
He asks if she’s as uncomfortable as he is.
She adjusts the rear view mirror and as he glances into it he can just make out the crest of a nipple inside her bra, struggling to escape her slightly unbuttoned shirt.
He asks her to adjust the rear view mirror.
She puts in a CD, asks him to listen.
He tells her how weird all of this feels.
He turns up the heat.
She shivers.
His step-sister gets in the car, closes the door.