On my way to the airport I hit a Christian. This was in Siloam Springs, Arkansas, on a hot afternoon last August, and it was entirely my fault: I wasn’t looking. I had stopped at a red light and had just punched the CD player off because Levon Helm was making me miss Jed and I was sick to death of missing Jed. When the light changed, I started up. The truck in front of me, a white pickup, did not. There was a gentle but decisive thud as I bumped into it.

Cursing, I pulled over to the shoulder. As I reached into the glove compartment to get my insurance forms, I heard a rap on the window and saw a red-faced man glaring at me through the glass. When I opened the door he leaned in, grasped my hand, hard, and dropped to his knees on the gravel.

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