I punched the brake, hoping the trailer would pass in front of me.It would have, if it wasn’t tapped by a driver in the oncoming lane, his own tires squealing. Just a nudge.I was done in by a nudge. The tongue of the trailer bounced once on the pavement, jumped up, punched into my little grey SUV, right ahead of the driver’s door. Caved in. metal bent. airbags popped. (Airbags are neat. Explosives – right there in the car with you. Might be interesting to look into – funny how the mind works in slow motion during an accident)My car slewed sideways, got tagged in the rear by another less attentive driver.It’s like slow motion when it’s happening. I remember the powder from the side airbag. And the pain.My door won’t open. I try to move. I think I screamed. Cindy, don’t do that again.A good Samaritan rapped on my passenger-side window.“Break it!” I yelled. Winced. Whimpered.“Turn your head,” he yelled.I turned my head, squeezed my eyes shut, heard glass shatter, then the door open.“Are. She slumped down in her chair too, her legs stretched out in front ofher and her bottom half off the seat. It was how she sat at home, or atleast how she had sat at home, before Louis had started to moan at herfor it."Sit up," he hissed, nudging her on the arm. She ignored him."You know Imogen, you're very lucky to have a Mother and Father that canafford to send you here," Miss Taylor-Bannister told her."Stepfather," Imogen murmured."What was that?" the teacher asked, her eyes narrowing as she glared atImogen."You said he was my Father," she replied, the 'he' coming out with suchvenom that she made it sound like a swear word, "he's not my Father. Myreal Dad would never send me to a place like this." No," Louis thought, "your real Dad is too busy spending all his dolemoney at the bookies." He was constantly amazed at Imogen's unwaveringlove for her worthless Dad, who hadn't even bothered to send her abirthday card when she'd turned 15, never mind make the effort to cometo the garden.
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