I was setting up a new playlist on my iPod when it happened the first time. It was an old man. I remember noticing his cardigan, like the ones Mr. Rogers wore, when his body bounced over the hood of my car.

I stopped long enough to make sure no one had seen it. The guy was crumpled in the gutter, all jutting elbows and bony knees. He looked dead to me. I found the song I was looking for — sometimes the click wheel sticks, I hate that — and I hit the gas again.

I wonder if they’d give me a new iPod if I complained.

One time, I hit what I thought was a speed bump near the elementary school. Turns out some kid had fallen off his skateboard into the street. Stupid. I didn’t even notice until I got to the end of the block. There was something in my eye, an eyelash maybe, so I stopped to look at it in the rearview, and then I saw his red sweatshirt. I couldn’t tell if he was moving or not.

I rubbed my eye and the eyelash came out. I felt a lot better after that.