The image of the corpse got smaller in my rear-view mirror. Why was he under my car?

As I gained speed with the road, I realized the answer; he cut my brakes. John reached for his lighter. Grasping it, he started trying, once again, to light his cigarette.

With each second, the car picked up more speed from the downhill stretch. Out of control, my car swerved, tossing the lighter out of John’s hands and onto the stack of tomorrow’s Granville Dispatch.

The fire quickly spread from the newspapers to the backseat. We both tried opening the car doors, but the safety locks that my parents had installed would not let up until the car was completely stopped.

The smell of burning flesh from the backseat flooded my nostrils, as John’s screams attacked my ears. I knew I had to find some other way to die before the fire could spread to the front seat.

That’s when a red caught my eye. I unbuckled my seatbelt, and hit the convertible. Sylvia and I died on impact.

At least the scratch warrantee’s still good.