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Imagine.

You’re having a marvelous dream. About beaches and sun; your upcoming vacation.  It’s the middle of winter and your home is peaceful and quiet. You’re cozy under your new duvet while your spouse, snoring beside you, dreams of all the things they’ll buy with the extra money from their new promotion. A big screen. A new car. The usual.

Then, there’s a crash from downstairs. Your bedroom window falls and shatters onto the floor. You’re awake, but can’t move.

“What was that?”

“Should we go check?”

Chilly December air drifts in from the empty window-pane, curling around your legs. You have a thousand goose bumps, and you want to pull the covers tighter but you don’t; it’s not the right thing to do. You have to be brave, so you leave your bed, grab your housecoat from its hook, and pulling it on, follow your spouse onto the landing outside your bedroom door. Downstairs, all is quiet. Downstairs, all you see are the shadows of the wreckage of your newly renovated living room.

“Fuck.”

It’s too dark to see the colour of the SUV parked on your sofa. The whole thing’s probably drug-related, you think, pulling your robe tighter. There goes your vacation. There goes the four-thousand-dollar carpet.

“Think the driver’s okay?”

You hadn’t gotten there yet, but now that you have, you think: the driver’s probably comfortable, passed out, head cushioned by an air-bag. Free from that, your mind turns to insurance claims and lawyer’s bills. Good thing you paid for that extra coverage. You’ll have to see Walter about this on Thursday.

You turn to flip a light switch behind you, illuminating the scene below. You see what’s left of a dark green Toyota. You see how awful your once beautiful living room has become.

Then you see what’s left of a man, dangling out the driver’s side window, dripping blood all over the carpet.

But wait. Don’t you recognize that sweater? Doesn’t Jerry drive a green Tundra? On his wrist, the Rolex you gave him two Christmases ago still ticks. You don’t have to see what’s left of his face to know that it’s his.

.

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Are you still worried about the carpet?

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