Thirty lanes, smart highway grids and years of evolution be damned; humans always slow down for a gruesome crash scene. John imagined that the Distracted (and possibly Departed, judging by the amount of smoke) must have been listening to the same broadcast he was fixed upon. A mechanical voice had been on the air since dawn:

“T-MINUS 1 DAY, 6 HOURS, 44 MINUTES AND 31 SECONDS. T-MINUS 1 DAY, 6 HOURS, 44 MINUTES AND 27 SECONDS. T-MINUS 1 DAY, 6 HOURS, 44 MINUTES AND 23 SECONDS. MAYBE YOU SHOULD RE-THINK THE WAY YOU DRESS. T-MINUS 1 DAY, 6 HOURS…”

It was on the national stations, but none of the indies. It was far too sublime to be a coordinated media stunt. John found himself tuning out the countdown for the non sequitur interjections of philosophy.

“…6 HOURS, 44 MINUTES AND 7 SECONDS. IT’S NEVER TOO LATE UNTIL IT IS. T-MINUS 1 DAY…”

Acrid smoke evaded the filters in John’s car and singed his sinuses. In his meditative state, he’d stopped wondering what was coming in just over one day and six hours.