Before that summer’s eve on a mountain road, my faith was conditional. God was a genie in a bottle, to be called upon in dire circumstances. “This is silly,” I thought, hesitating. “I have the green light. There’s a line of cars behind me; they’re going to start honking.” Despite my unexplained fear, I proceeded into the intersection like a sitting duck, making a left turn on a blind curve. And then, I heard it. The roar of her engine preceded the flash of headlights just before I felt the impact of a missile on my driver’s side. I careened into multiple 360-degree rotations; my head flopping recklessly back and forth. Preparing to meet my maker, I murmured, “I’ll see you in a few minutes God.” I drifted, coming to rest, nose to nose against the mountain, strangely without impact. I smelled gasoline. Trapped, panic began to swell. Afraid to turn my neck, I heard a man’s voice in the backseat say, “I’ll stay with you until the paramedics arrive.”
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