The waitress had refilled it twice.
I hadn’t touched it once.
My phone lay beside my hand like something dangerous.
There were seventeen notifications.
Six were from coworkers.
Three were from people asking if the rumors were true.
One was from my ex-wife reminding me that our daughters’ school tuition payment was due Friday.
And seven were from numbers I didn’t recognize.
I couldn’t bring myself to answer any of them.
That morning, I had been a senior account strategist earning enough to keep my small house, pay support, and convince myself my life was reasonably stable.
By lunch, I was unemployed.
All because I had pulled my car onto the shoulder of Route 18.
I could still see the woman.
Silver-gray hair.
Dark blue coat.
One hand pressed against her chest.
The other waving weakly toward passing traffic.
Cars had gone around her.
SUVs.
Delivery vans.
A pickup truck.
