The light turned amber but he pushed.
A cigarette dangled, trembling, from his lip.
The rain had slickened the asphalt hours ago.
She glanced down—just a second—at her phone.
A dog barked three blocks over, unheard,
but his leash tangled the stroller wheels.
The truck hadn’t had a tune-up since last year.
Brake pads thin as a half-whisper.
He adjusted the radio. She adjusted her mirror.
The child in the back screamed for candy.
The coffee lid wasn’t on tight enough.
Hot liquid scorched her palm, left her swearing.
One driver checked the time, the other panicked.
The horn was barely touched. Steel found steel.
Tires shrieked, a sick plea against inertia.
Metal crumpled. Glass burst like misplaced stars.
The world slowed for five seconds too late,
then sped back up to ordinary chaos.