It played in Marci Rollins’ head in slow motion, every detail vivid. A red sports car coming fast, then at the last second, tires screaming. The left side of the car slid towards her baby. Then, for an instant, the red car slid in the other direction. She could see the driver, a man about her age, long-haired and wearing a black T-shirt. His hands were a blur, working back and forth on the steering wheel. Marci’s mind and body locked down. Fear froze her to the asphalt. Another instant—the red car now almost straight—in the middle of Elm Street—only a few feet away—and closing.
It played in Marci Rollins’ Marci Rollin’s three-week-old maternal instinct snapped into place.
Later, when Tad Williamson replayed it in his head, the incident would remind him of something from a video game—lo
