I changed the selection on my iPod, lifting it from where it sat near the gearshift and glancing down periodically to make sure I was getting the right album. I needed something soothing. It had been a long day. Now I was driving home, exhausted. Perhaps my family would cheer me up.

The music was soothing; I felt my head begin to droop. When I snapped it back up again and looked out the windshield something was wrong; the sky was green. A buzzing filled my limbs as I realized the sky was not green; the car was upside down. I closed my eyes. I heard the metal scream as the roof collapsed, and the silvery explosion of the windshield.

Inverted, I hung from seatbelt, the light fading. A drip landed on my chin, trickling slowly to my mouth; a last taste of dark roast. A flash of red, and a siren intruded upon my transition.

“Is someone inside?” a grating voice asked.

Floating toward the light, I saw my family waiting around the dinner table. The phone rang, and my husband answered it. “Good-bye!” I called.