The white compact's grille filled Amelia's mirror.
“Not like this," she said, knuckles white, turning into the slide. Rubber screamed. The river flashed steel-gray to her right, the barrier a hard white line.
The compact lunged again.
A black SUV cut across two lanes and shouldered in, horn blaring. It hit the compact at a clean angle, a shove rather than a smash, pushing it off Amelia's quarter panel and into the barrier with a sick, metal gasp. Airbags burst like fists of powder.
The SUV slewed, overcorrected, spun once. Its driver's-side door kissed the concrete wall hard. Glass scattered like thrown salt.
Amelia braked—steady, steady—brought her car to a screaming stop on the shoulder, hazard lights frantic. The world was noise and white and the smell of burned rubber.
She ran.
