Except Jenny doesn’t know these hand signals, and she must mistake it for a wave, or me ushering her over. Or maybe it’s because the sun is low and in her eyes. Either way, I see her grinning at me from the other side of the highway as her wrist twists the throttle. I scream at her to stop. Dad lurches forward as though he can grab her and stop her. But it’s too late. And I’ll never stop feeling responsible.
