There’s an obnoxious whirring. It’s probably the sound of the flywheel spinning unfettered, assuming its linkage has been wrenched out of place. Forward motion has been abruptly halted, causing nerve endings to seize as they process the violent shift of inertia.

The brain’s momentary suspension of its faculties causes the last few seconds to fuse together as one non-linear event. So as the hood metal is buckling with great protest, plastic and colored glass dart across the pavement with jagged movement. Bits of molding splinter off of the dashboard. The windshield glazes instantly with a spider web of fractures. Directly ahead, the rear of the 18-wheeler absorbs the energy from the impact, ripples groaning through its frame as it’s launched forward.

The faces of passersby show various stages of comprehension. An acrid smell and sudden rise in temperature indicate that the fuel line has ruptured, soon to produce a sizeable explosion and all-consuming fireball.

I guess I can take my foot off the gas now.

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