Crash Amnesia blaring in your ears. Piano running through its arpeggio as you hear muffled questions being shouted from a distance. Take off your helmet. Remove your ear buds. Open your eyes to a disgusting amount of dead valley sky. It's time for you to sit up. Engine still puttering like a champ. The stranger mutters something like, "That's a lot of blood. Are you ok?" Stifling ***** and a laugh you reply, "Feelin' fine. Never better." You notice that he's still in his car. He didn't even roll down his window fully. This is the extent of help or empathy you've come to expect. The taste of iron fills your mouth. You spit. Crimson. You smile. Fake. You wave him on. It's time to work. It's a process.