MY FATHER CALLED ME about this little girl. He’d run her over with his truck. Not completely, but enough to break her hip. My understanding was that this wasn’t his fault. The little girl had been riding her bike down the same steep, jagged hill I’d loved so much as a child. The hill spilled right onto Main Street. You had to start pressing your brakes about halfway down, or else you wouldn’t have enough time to stop. The little girl didn’t, so—bap!—my father ran her over. He was going the speed limit, a bit under even, which is why the little girl didn’t die. “Seriously,” my father said. “The police told me if I’d been going five miles faster, I would’ve killed her.” He kept saying that, over and over: “I would’ve killed her, I would’ve killed her.” The thought that he almost had was too much to bear. He shut himself away—called out of work, ignored text messages, only opened the door to let the dog out. He was soaked in shame, and I was trying my best to take care of him. I drove from Kansas City to Topeka every evening to make dinner and walk the dog. “She isn’t dead, Dad,” I told him. “She’s going to be fine.” And a handful of months later, she was. I watched her one night as I drove away from my father’s house. She was riding her new bike down that same hill, hurtling as though she’d never been hit by a truck at all. I wanted to roll the window down and tell her to stop, to use her head for just one goddamn second. But I said nothing. I knew she wouldn’t listen. I drove and drove, and eventually, I called my father to tell him what I’d seen. “Can you believe it?” I asked. “She’s insane. She’s zipping around like she’s invincible.” My father was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, his words fluttered. “No, I can’t believe it,” he said. “But, son—I couldn’t be happier.” •   





Zach Alan Michael sells books in Kansas City, MO. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, BULL, Bruiser, Scaffold, and others.

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