Leaving
the
Scene
of
an
Accident
Nathaniel
Moncrieff
He
leaves
the
scene
of
an
accident.
It
is
an
accident
in
so
much
as
an
accident
is
an
accident,
and
people
are
killed,
but
he
is
not,
and
so
he
leaves.
It
is
a
clear
night
and
a
half-moon
is
out,
a
fine
night
to
walk,
and
he
does.
He
walks
along
the
freeway
bridge
and
there
is
no
traffic,
only
the
sound
of
a
river
coming
from
the
darkness
below.
It
is
cold,
at
least
the
wind
is
cold,
but
he
wears
a
sweater
so
he
is
not
cold.
The
wreck
is
in
the
distance
now
and
both
cars
have
merges
as
one
and
there
they
stay,
steaming,
like
a
hot
meal.
He
is
hungry.
Where
am
I
going
exactly,
he
thinks,
but
this
thought
is
not
elucidated
because
it
is
a
nice
night
to
walk,
and
that
he
does,
and
soon
he
is
off
the
freeway
in
some
vacant
parkland
adjacent
to
an
apartment
building
where,
in
the
tall
windows,
he
can
see
people
sitting
on
sofas,
bathed
in
the
pulsating
blue
light
of
their
TV
sets.
He
wonders
if,
in
the
past,
men
leaving
the
scenes
of
accidents
had
ever
observed
him
watching
television.
He
has
blood
on
his
t-shirt
and
on
his
cheek
and
it
has
dried
and
looks
black.
He
walks
up
a
street
lined
with
conifers
that
are
tall
and
point
up
at
buildings
even
taller.
He
comes
to
a
set
of
traffic
lights
and
notices
there
are
brown
streetlamps
everywhere
and,
as
such,
everything
is
brown.
Why
brown,
he
wonders.
There
are
no
cars
because
they
have
gone
home
and
been
parked
in
garages,
and
he
feels
peaceful
at
the
notion
that
things
fit
together.
Then
one
appears
and
slows
down
alongside
him,
its
windows
down,
a
pale
face
with
its
mouth
agape
in
the
dashboard
light.
Soon
the
car
is
gone.
He
is
still
hungry.
He
enters
a
fast
food
restaurant
where
people
are
sitting
at
tables
not
talking
but
talking
all
the
same.
He
orders
a
burger
and
goes
to
a
booth
with
red
leather
seats.
His
stomach
makes
a
ferocious
gurgling
sound
and,
looking
down,
he
realizes
there
is
more
blood
on
his
shirt
than
he
had
first
thought.
He
looks
at
the
other
customers,
mostly
couples,
and
they
look
at
each
other,
and
it
makes
him
unhappy
that
they
seem
unhappy,
and
he
wonders
if
he
was
always
unhappy
or
whether
it
was
just
now,
standing,
arms
flailing,
cursing
and
screaming,
and
he
wonders
this
but
it
does
not
matter,
because
these
things
happen
when
you
leave
the
scene
of
an
accident
and
your
wife
and
child
are
dead
and
you’re
waiting
for
a
burger
that
does
not
come
and
you
wonder
when
it
will
come
or
if
it
ever
will.
EJ
BRADY
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