stare at the stars. The quiet overshadows their arguments. The stillness allows me to clear my mind, to let it all go blank when I find it hardest to find some form of peace. I spy the Little Dipper over the tree line, and when I think I see a shooting star, I close my eyes. My tired mind may be playing a trick on me, but I make a wish anyway. The air shifts and twists, and a chill runs down my spine. One second I’m wishing on a star, and the next, hard metal slams into me. My body flies through the air and smashes the dirt road harder than I could dream. My lungs fight for air while my bones
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