We were on the federal highway, approaching its intersection with the interstate, which was at this point somewhat elevated above the lesser road. Heavy rain slashed the night, the skeins dividing it into diagonal slivers like a completed puzzle in which the narrow slices of the image did not quite align. Bridget let our speed fall. Leaning over the steering wheel to squint through the rain-blurred windshield, she said, “That cluster of lights on the interstate, to the west. There’s been an accident—or it’s a roadblock.” From the back seat, leaning forward, Panthea said, “Roadblock. The ISA is
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