And I had just been fired for not leaving a woman to die by the road.
I stayed in that parking lot until my breathing slowed enough for me to see straight.
Then I wiped my face with the back of my hand, started the engine, and drove home.
The drive should have taken ten minutes.
It felt like I was crossing a continent.
Every red light made me angrier.
Every stop sign made me replay the morning.
Her face.
That was what kept coming back.
A woman in a navy cardigan and sensible flats, one hand pressed hard against her chest, the other reaching out into empty air like she was trying to grab hold of the world before it tipped away from her.
If I had driven by, I would have seen that face in my sleep for the rest of my life.
I knew that.
So why did losing my job still feel like I had done something wrong?
