Front Windshield Quotes

Always focus on the front windshield and not the review mirror.

Take care of your car in the garage, and the car will take care of you on the road.

When you decide to be the immovable object standing in front of the unstoppable force, you'd better pray that you're right about being immovable, and they're wrong about being unstoppable.' 'Otherwise, you'll wind up like a bug on a windshield.

The city of San Francisco engulfed their view through the front windshield. The dazzling light of the late morning sun transformed every glass and metal surface into a silvery mirage.

I am emotional about engines, if you hurt my car, you hurt my heart.

Just shut up.” But he doesn’t. “I’m not saying you should do anything. And that’s why I stepped in and didn’t let you bring her home.” His tone turns serious. “All kidding aside, Pike,” he goes on, “she is exactly your type. You shouldn’t be alone with her.” Yeah. I know. I just hope he’s the only person who’s noticed. “Thanks for the intervention,” I tell him, “but even if I were attracted to her, I’m capable of controlling myself.” “You’re not seeing yourself from my perspective.” He looks out the front windshield, solemn. “You look at each other like…” “Like?” He swallows, an unusually troubled pinch to his brow. “Like the two of you have your own language.

I used to sit in front of my father's Jag, watching the raindrops run their kamikaze suicide missions from one edge of the windshield to the wiper blade.

Asking someone else to drive your sports car is like asking someone else to kiss your girlfriend.

You see," he continued, beginning to feel better, "once there was no time at all, and people found it very inconvenient. They never knew wether they were eating lunch or dinner, and they were always missing trains. So time was invented to help them keep track of the day and get to places where they should. When they began to count all the time that was available, what with 60 seconds in a minute and 60 minutes in an hour and 24 hours in a day and 365 days in a year, it seemed as if there was much more than could ever be used. 'If there's so much of it, it couldn't be very valuable,' was the general opinion, and it soon fell into dispute. People wasted it and even gave it away. Then we were giving the job of seeing that no one wasted time again," he said, sitting up proudly. "It's hard work but a noble calling. For you see"- and now he was standing on the seat, one foot on the windshield, shouting with his ams outstretched- "it is our most valuable possession, more precious than diamonds. It marches on, it and tide wait for no man, and-" At that point in the speech the car hit a bump in the road and the watchdog collapsed in a heap on the front seat with his alarm ringing furiously.

Among all the machines, motorcar is my favorite machine.

And then a man of forty or so, with a French accent, asked, "How do you achieve the presence of mind to initiate the writing of a poem?" And something cracked open in me, and I finally stopped hoarding and told them my most useful secret. The only secret that has helped me consistently over all the years that I've written. I said, "Well, I'll tell you how. I ask a simple question. I ask myself: What was the very best moment of your day??" The wonder of it was, I told them that this one question could lift out from my life exactly what I will want to write a poem about. Something I hadn't known was important will leap out and hover there in front of me, saying I am— I am the best moment of the day. I noticed two people were writing down what I was saying. Often, I went on, it's a moment when you're waiting for someone, or you're driving somewhere, or maybe you're just walking across a parking lot and admiring the oil stains and the dribbled tar patterns. One time it was when I was driving past a certain house that was screaming with sunlitness on its white clapboards, and then I plunged through tree shadows that splashed and splayed across the windshield. I thought, Ah, of course— I'd forgotten. You, windshield shadows, you are the best moment of the day. "And that's my secret, such as it is," I said.

You’re not seeing yourself from my perspective.” He looks out the front windshield, solemn. “You look at each other like…” “Like?” He swallows, an unusually troubled pinch to his brow. “Like the two of you have your own language

You’re not seeing yourself from my perspective.” He looks out the front windshield, solemn. “You look at each other like…” “Like?” He swallows, an unusually troubled pinch to his brow. “Like the two of you have your own language.

I was just learning how to read and was reading every sign out loud, practising, and when I saw Cockburn Avenue I said Cock Burn Avenue and then asked what's that? And Elf, she must have been eleven or twelve, said that's from too much sex and my mother said shhhh from the front passenger seat and we didn't dare look over at my dad who clutched the wheel and peered out the windshield like a sniper tracking his target. There were two things he didn't ever want to talk about and they were sex and Russia.

It’s not a hometown, actually, it’s a home island. “It’s the same size and shape as Manhattan,” Arthur tells people at parties all his life, “except with a thousand people.” Delano Island is between Vancouver Island and mainland British Columbia, a straight shot north from Los Angeles. The island is all temperate rain forest and rocky beaches, deer breaking into vegetable gardens and leaping in front of windshields, moss on low-hanging branches, the sighing of wind in cedar trees.

I am so obsessed with the cars that sometimes I feel like my heart is not a muscle, it's an engine.

Harry sits wordless staring through the windshield, rigid in body, rigid in spirit. The curving highway seems a wide straight road that has opened up in front of him. There is nothing he wants to do but go down it.

The other cars had to pass noisily around us, but there was no anti-parking sign. Through the windshield, we could see another under-bridge area in front of us, and the cars that passed us were forming a line to enter it.

We entered the cool cave of the practice space with all the long-haired, goateed boys stoned on clouds of pot and playing with power tools. I tossed my fluffy coat into the hollow of my bass drum and lay on the carpet with my worn newspaper. A shirtless boy came in and told us he had to cut the power for a minute, and I thought about being along in the cool black room with Joey. Let's go smoke, she said, and I grabbed the cigarettes off the amp. She started talking to me about Wonder Woman. I feel like something big is happening, but I don't know what to do about it. With The Straight Girl? I asked in the blankest voice possible. With everything. Back in the sun we walked to the edge of the parking lot where a black Impala convertible sat, rusted and rotting, looking like it just got dredged from a swamp. Rainwater pooling on the floor. We climbed up onto it and sat our butts backward on the edge of the windshield, feet stretched into the front seat. Before she even joined the band, I would think of her each time I passed the car, the little round medallions with the red and black racing flags affixed to the dash. On the rusting Chevy, Joey told me about her date the other night with a girl she used to like who she maybe liked again. How her heart was shut off and it felt pretty good. How she just wanted to play around with this girl and that girl and this girl and I smoked my cigarette and went Uh-Huh. The sun made me feel like a restless country girl even though I'd never been on a farm. I knew what I stood for, even if nobody else did. I knew the piece of me on the inside, truer than all the rest, that never comes out. Doesn't everyone have one? Some kind of grand inner princess waiting to toss her hair down, forever waiting at the tower window. Some jungle animal so noble and fierce you had to crawl on your belly through dangerous grasses to get a glimpse. I gave Joey my cigarette so I could unlace the ratty green laces of my boots, pull them off, tug the linty wool tights off my legs. I stretched them pale over the car, the hair springing like weeds and my big toenail looking cracked and ugly. I knew exactly who I was when the sun came back and the air turned warm. Joey climbed over the hood of the car, dusty black, and said Let's lie down, I love lying in the sun, but there wasn't any sun there. We moved across the street onto the shining white sidewalk and she stretched out, eyes closed. I smoked my cigarette, tossed it into the gutter and lay down beside her. She said she was sick of all the people who thought she felt too much, who wanted her to be calm and contained. Who? I asked. All the flowers, the superheroes. I thought about how she had kissed me the other night, quick and hard, before taking off on a date in her leather chaps, hankies flying, and I sat on the couch and cried at everything she didn't know about how much I liked her, and someone put an arm around me and said, You're feeling things, that's good. Yeah, I said to Joey on the sidewalk, I Feel Like I Could Calm Down Some. Awww, you're perfect. She flipped her hand over and touched my head. Listen, we're barely here at all, I wanted to tell her, rolling over, looking into her face, we're barely here at all and everything goes so fast can't you just kiss me? My eyes were shut and the cars sounded close when they passed. The sun was weak but it baked the grime on my skin and made it smell delicious. A little kid smell. We sat up to pop some candy into our mouths, and then Joey lay her head on my lap, spent from sugar and coffee. Her arm curled back around me and my fingers fell into her slippery hair. On the February sidewalk that felt like spring.

Look ahead It’s tempting to go through life looking in the rearview mirror. When you are always looking back, you become focused on what didn’t work out, on who hurt you, and on the mistakes you’ve made, such as: “If only I would have finished college.” “If only I’d spent more time with my children.” “If only I’d been raised in a better environment.” As long as you’re living in regret, focused on the negative things of the past, you won’t move ahead to the bright future God has in store. You need to let go of what didn’t work out. Let go of your hurts and pains. Let go of your mistakes and failures. You can’t do anything about the past, but you can do something about right now. Whether it happened twenty minutes ago or twenty years ago, let go of the hurts and failures and move forward. If you keep bringing the negative baggage from yesterday into today, your future will be poisoned. You can’t change what’s happened to you. You may have had an unfair past, but you don’t have to have an unfair future. You may have had a rough start, but it’s not how you start, it’s how you finish. Don’t let a hurtful relationship sour your life. Don’t let a bad break, a betrayal, a divorce, or a bad childhood cause you to settle for less in life. Move forward and God will pay you back. Move forward and God will vindicate you. Move forward and you’ll come into a new beginning. Nothing that’s happened to you is a surprise to God. The loss of a loved one didn’t catch God off guard. God’s plan for your life did not end just because your business didn’t make it, or a relationship failed, or you had a difficult child. Here’s the question: Will you become stuck and bitter, fall into self-pity, blame others, and let the past poison your future? Or will you shake it off and move forward, knowing your best days are still ahead? The next time you are in your car, notice that there’s a big windshield in the front and a very small rearview mirror. The reason the front windshield is so big and the rearview mirror is so small is that what’s happened in the past is not nearly as important as what is in your future. Where you’re going is a lot more important than where you’ve been.

What’s your greatest regret?” she asked. He turned to look at her, then focused his eyes on the windshield in front of him. “You.” She felt an ache in her chest. “That you admitted you loved me? Or that you took me with you?” “Both.” “Will it help if I say I’m in love with you?” He shot another quick look in her direction, but a sudden gust of wind hit, and he had to focus on sideslipping the plane. When it was steady again, he focused piercing gray eyes on her and asked, “Are you in love with me?” “I think so.

But now Max wanted Gina to look out the window. “The cavalry had arrived,” he told her. Someone was standing directly in front of the tank. Whoever he was—a boy, dressed like a surfer, on crutches—was holding one hand out in front of him like a traffic cop signaling halt. The tank, of course, had rolled to a stop. And Gina realized this was no ordinary surfer, this was Jules Cassidy. Jules was alive! And here she’d thought she was all cried out. Max laughed as he peered out through the slit that passed as a windshield for the tank. “He has no idea that we’re in here,” he said. Damn, Jules looked like he’d been hit by a bus. “Jesus, he has some balls.” Jules turned to the interpreter, who still didn’t quite believe that they weren’t going to kill him. “Open the hatch.” “Yes, sir.” He poked his head out. “Do you speak English?” Max could hear Jules through the opening. “Yes, sir.” “Tell your commanding officer to back up. In fact, tell him to leave the area. I’m in charge of this situation now. My name is Jules Cassidy and I’m an American, with the FBI. There are Marine gunships on their way, they’ll be here any minute. They have armor-penetrating artillery—they’ll blow you to hell, so back off.” “Tell him Jones wants to know if the gunships are really coming, or if that’s just something he learned in FBI Bullshitting 101.” The interpreter passed the message along. As Max watched, surprise and relief crossed Jules’s face. “Is Max in there, too?” Jules asked. “Yes, sir,” the interpreter said. “Well, shit.” Jules grinned. “I should’ve stayed in the hospital.” “I hear helicopters!” Gina’s voice came through the walkie-talkie. “I can see them, too! They’re definitely American!” Max took a deep breath, keyed the talk button. And sang. “Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go . . .

Neil felt a half-second from losing his mind, but then Andrew said his name and Neil's thoughts ground to a startled halt. He was belatedly aware of his hand at his ear and his fingers clenched tight around his phone. He didn't remember pulling it from his pocket or making the decision to dial out. He lowered it and tapped a button, thinking maybe he'd imagined things, but Andrew's name was on his display and the timer put the call at almost a minute already. Neil put the phone back to his ear, but he couldn't find the words for the wretched feeling that was tearing away at him. In three months championships would be over. In four months he'd be dead. In five months the Foxes would be right back here for summer practices with six new faces. Neil could count his life on one hand now. On the other hand was the future he couldn't have: vice-captain, captain, Court. Neil had no right to mourn these missed chances. He'd gotten more than he deserved this year; it was selfish to ask for more. He should be grateful for what he had, and gladder still that his death would mean something. He was going to drag his father and the Moriyamas down with him when he went, and they'd never recover from the things he said. It was justice when he'd never thought he'd get any and revenge for his mother's death. He thought he'd come to terms with it but that hollow ache was back in his chest where it had no right to be. Neil felt like he was drowning. Neil found his voice at last, but the best he had was, "Come and get me from the stadium." Andrew didn't answer, but the quiet took on a new tone. Neil checked the screen again and saw the timer flashing at seventy-two seconds. Andrew had hung up on him. Neil put his phone away and waited. It was only a couple minutes from Fox Tower to the Foxhole Court, but it took almost fifteen minutes for Andrew to turn into the parking lot. He pulled into the space a couple inches from Neil's left foot and didn't bother to kill the engine. Kevin was in the passenger seat, frowning silent judgment at Neil through the windshield. Andrew got out of the car when Neil didn't move and stood in front of Neil. Neil looked up at him, studying Andrew's bored expression and waiting for questions he knew wouldn't come. That apathy should have grated against his raw nerves but somehow it steadied him. Andrew's disinterest in his psychological well-being was what had drawn Neil to him in the first place: the realization that Andrew would never flinch away from whatever poison was eating Neil alive.

Everything started to move in slow motion. A vehicle was coming up the hill in the opposite direction, facing us but in its own lane. With vehicles parked on both sides of the road, this meant that there was just a narrow passage area for both vehicles to pass through. However, he had yet to reduce his speed, and now I knew which car he was going to hit. I was frozen stiff with fear in the front passenger seat, as I helplessly watched him slam into the back of a parked car. I was not wearing a seat belt, so upon impact my head crashed into the windshield. I was then slammed back into my seat, but with such force that everything went black.

Open All Night" (originally by Bruce Springsteen) I had the carburetor cleaned and checked With her line blown out, she's hummin' like a turbojet Propped her up in the backyard on concrete blocks For a new clutch plate and a new set of shocks Took her down to the carwash, check the plugs and points I'm goin' out tonight, I'm gonna rock that joint Early north Jersey industrial skyline I'm a all-set cobra jet creepin' through the nighttime Gotta find a gas station, gotta find a payphone This turnpike sure is spooky at night when you're all alone Gotta hit the gas, baby, I'm runnin' late This New Jersey in the mornin' like a lunar landscape The boss don't dig me, so he put me on the nightshift It takes me two hours to get back to where my baby lives In the wee wee hours, your mind gets hazy Radio relay towers, won't you lead me to my baby? Underneath the overpass, trooper hits his party light switch Goodnight, good luck, one two powershift I met Wanda when she was employed Behind the counter at the Route 60 Bob's Big Boy Fried chicken on the front seat, she's sittin' in my lap We're wipin' our fingers on a Texaco roadmap I remember Wanda up on scrap metal hill With them big brown eyes that make your heart stand still 5 A.M., oil pressure's sinkin' fast I make a pit stop, wipe the windshield, check the gas Gotta call my baby on the telephone Let her know that her daddy's comin' on home Sit tight, little mama, I'm comin' round I got three more hours, but I'm coverin' ground Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers Radio's jammed up with gospel stations Lost souls callin' long distance salvation Hey Mr. DJ, won't you hear my last prayer? Hey ho rock 'n' roll, deliver me from nowhere Ryan Adams, Nebraska (2022)

It was awful. It was three in the morning. And I finally said, “Chip, I’m not sleeping in this house.” We were broke. We couldn’t go to a hotel. There was no way we were gonna go knock on one of our parents’ doors at that time of night. That’s when I got an idea. We happened to have Chip’s parents’ old RV parked in a vacant lot a few blocks down. We had some of our things in there and had been using it basically as a storage unit until we moved in. “Let’s get in the RV. We’ll go find somewhere to plug it in, and we’ll have AC,” I said. As we stepped outside, the skies opened up. It started pouring rain. When we finally got into the RV, soaking wet, we pulled down the road a ways and Chip said, “I know where we can go.” It was raining so hard we could barely see through the windshield, and all of a sudden Chip turned the RV into a cemetery. “Why are you pulling in to a cemetery?” I asked him. “We’re not going to the cemetery,” Chip said. “It’s just next to a cemetery. There’s an RV park back here.” “Are you kidding me? Could this get any worse?” “Oh, quit it. You’re going to love it once I get this AC fired up.” Chip decided to go flying through the median between the two rows of RV parking, not realizing it was set up like a culvert for drainage and rain runoff. That RV bounced so hard that, had it not been for our seat belts, we would’ve both been catapulted through the roof of that vehicle. “What was that?!” “I don’t know,” Chip said. I tried to put it in reverse, and then forward, and then reverse again, and the thing just wouldn’t move. I hopped out to take a look and couldn’t believe it. There was a movie a few years ago where the main character gets his RV caught on this fulcrum and it’s sitting there teetering with both sets of wheels up in the air. Well, we sort of did the opposite. We went across this valley, and because the RV was so long, the butt end of it got stuck on the little hill behind us, and the front end got stuck on the little hill in front of us, and the wheels were just sort of hanging there in between. I crawled back into the RV soaking wet and gave Jo the bad news. We had no place to go, no place to plug in so we could run the AC; it was pouring rain so we couldn’t really walk anywhere to get help. And at that point I was just done. We wound up toughing it out and spending the first night after our honeymoon in a hot, old RV packed full of our belongings, suspended between two bumps in the road.

Sean was watching me, though. And Sean wiped the bryozoa residue from his hand across my stomach. This was the third time a boy had ever touched my bare tummy, and I’d had enough. Through gritted teeth, like any extra movement might spread the bryozoa further across my skin, I told him, “I like you less than I did.” I bailed over the side of the boat-the side opposite where the bryozoa returned to its native habitat. Deep in the warm water, I scrubbed at my tummy with both hands. A combination of bryozoa waste and Sean germs: it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Leaning toward worst, because now I had slime on my hands. Or maybe this was psychosomatic. Holding my hands open in front of me in the water, I didn’t see any slime. I rubbed my hands together anyway. Something dove into the water beside me in a rush of bubbles. I came up for air. Sean surfaced, too, tossing sparkling drops of water from his hair. “You still like me a lot, though, right?” “No prob. Green is the new black.” Giving up on getting clean, I swam a few strokes back toward the platform to get out again. What I needed was a shower with chlorinated water and disinfectant soap. I might need to bubble out my belly button with hydrogen peroxide. “What if I made it up to you?” He splashed close behind me. “What if I helped you get clean? We don’t want you dirty.” He moved both hands around me under the water, up and down across my tummy. It was the fourth time a boy had touched my tummy! And it was very awkward. He bobbed so close behind me that I had a hard time treading water without kicking him. I needed to choose between flirting and breathing. Cameron and my brother leaned over the side of the boat and gaped at us, which didn’t help matters. I’d been afraid of this. Flirting with Sean was no fun if the other boys acted like we were lepers. Well, okay, it was fun, but not as fun as it was supposed to be. Obviously I would need to give McGullicuddy the little dolphin talk. I wasn’t sure I could do this with Cameron-Cameron and I didn’t have heart-to-heart convos-but I might need to make an exception, if he continued to watch us like we were a dirty movie on Pay-Per-View (which I’d also seen a lot of. Life with boys). BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE- Sean and I started and turned toward the boat. Still behind the steering wheel, Adam had his chin in his hand and his elbow on the horn. -EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Damn it! I turned around to face Sean and gave him a wry smile, but he’d already taken his hands away from my tummy. The horn really ruined the mood. -EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Sean hauled himself up onto the platform. I followed close behind him, and (glee!) he put out a hand to help me. Cameron and my brother yelled at Adam. -EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. “Oh!” Adam said as if he’d had no idea he’d been laying on the horn. He looked at his elbow like it belonged to someone else. I was in the boat with Sean now, and he was still holding my hand. Or, maybe I was still clinging to his hand, but this is a question of semantics. In any case, I pulled him by the hand past the other boys to the bow. We didn’t have privacy. There was no privacy on a wakeboarding boat. At least we had the boat’s windshield between us and the others. As I turned to sit down on the bench, I stuck out my tongue at Adam behind the windshield. He crossed his eyes at me.

Can you come up the back way?” Miranda asked. Etienne had dropped the others off. Now he and Miranda sat in his truck, parked in the driveway of Hayes House. The stress of the evening had eased since they’d left The Tavern, and she leaned back with her eyes closed while Etienne stared silently out the fogged-up windshield. “Can you?” she asked again. She still hadn’t told him about the attic, about Nathan’s unexpected appearance, or about the connection she’d sensed between Nathan and Hayes House. Several times during dinner, she’d wanted to bring it up, but with so many other things to talk over, she’d decided to put it on hold till a later time. And now’s that time. “Etienne?” “We gotta stop meeting like this,” he said, poker-faced. “The neighbors, they’re starting to talk.” “You’re the one who started it.” “What, you don’t want me to meet your mama?” “It’s not that--” “I promise she’ll like me. Your aunt Teeta, she likes me.” “My aunt Teeta loves you. She thinks you’re wonderful.” “See. What’d I tell you?” “She also thinks Gage is adorable.” “What can I say? Gage is adorable.” Miranda had to laugh. “Look, if we go in the front, they’ll both want to fuss over you, and we won’t have any privacy, and I can’t mention ghosts and weird things in front of them.” “You know, cher, I’ve had a lotta girls talk me into their bedrooms, but this is the first time I’ve heard that excuse.” “This is not that kind of invitation. Understand?” Etienne gave her a solemn stare. He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Okay. Since you twisted my arm--I’ll come up the back.” Miranda thought maybe this time he might actually smile. But like all the times before, only a fleeting hint of amusement touched his lips. “Fifteen minutes,” she said, climbing out. “At least. I gotta park my truck somewhere else. And walk all the way back. And sneak all the way in. Secret rendezvous, you know…they take time.

Soon after three o'clock on the afternoon of April 22nd 1973, a 35-year-old architect named Robert Maitland was driving down the high-speed exit lane of the Westway interchange in central London. Six hundred yards from the junction with the newly built spur of the M4 motorway, when the Jaguar had already passed the 70 m.p.h. speed limit, a blow-out collapsed the front nearside tyre. The exploding air reflected from the concrete parapet seemed to detonate inside Robert Maitland's skull. During the few seconds before his crash he clutched at the whiplashing spokes of the steering wheel, dazed by the impact of the chromium window pillar against his head. The car veered from side to side across the empty traffic lanes, jerking his hands like a puppet's. The shredding tyre laid a black diagonal stroke across the white marker lines that followed the long curve of the motorway embankment. Out of control, the car burst through the palisade of pinewood trestles that formed a temporary barrier along the edge of the road. Leaving the hard shoulder, the car plunged down the grass slope of the embankment. Thirty yards ahead, it came to a halt against the rusting chassis of an overturned taxi. Barely injured by this violent tangent that had grazed his life, Robert Maitland lay across his steering wheel, his jacket and trousers studded with windshield fragments like a suit of lights.

You should focus on what you can change, not what you cannot change. What’s done is done. If somebody offended you, mistreated you, or disappointed you, the hurts can’t be undone. You can get bitter--pack it in a bag and carry it around and let it weigh you down--or you can forgive those who hurt you and go on. If you lost your temper yesterday, you can beat yourself up--put the guilt and condemnation in a bag--or you can ask for forgiveness, receive God’s mercy, and do better today. If you didn’t get a promotion you wanted, you can get sour and go around with a chip on your shoulder, or you can shake it off, knowing that God has something better in store. No matter what happens, big or small, if you make the choice to let it go and move forward, you won’t let the past poison your future. A woman I know went through a divorce years ago. We prayed several times in our services, asking God to bring a good man into her life. One day she met a fine Godly man, who was very successful. She was so happy, but she made the mistake of carrying all her negative baggage from her divorce into the new relationship. She was constantly talking about what she had been through and how she was so mistreated. She had a victim mentality. The man told me later that she was so focused on her past and so caught up in what she had been through that he just couldn’t deal with it. He moved on. That’s what happens when we hold on to the hurts and pains of the past. It will poison you wherever you go. You can’t drag around all the personal baggage from yesterday and expect to have good relationships. You’ve got to let it go. Quit looking at the little rearview mirror and start looking out the great big windshield in front of you. You may have had some bad breaks, but that didn’t stop God’s plan for your life. He still has amazing things in your future. When one door closes, stay in faith and God will open another door. If a dream dies, don’t sit around in self-pity talking about what you lost, move forward and dream another dream. Your life is not over because you lost a loved one, went through a divorce, lost a job, or didn’t get the house you wanted. You would not be alive unless God had another victory in front of you.

that left him with the deep burn and scar that ran down his face.  He’d hit a semi head on, and the airbag in his car failed to deploy.  The impact had propelled him head first through the windshield and slammed his face into the front grill of the semi.  He’d been in a coma for ten days and when he came to, he learned that Dianna his girlfriend of eight years had dumped him.  They were dark days and he knew Mom was relieved that TL and Pax were there to support him through his rehab and many operations.  The army had taken care of the medical costs, and his

oaks, the forest opened up and we flew in an oval pattern around the scene. The grille of a blue Mustang was nosed up against an earthen barrier, the vehicle’s doors open. Two bodies, both male, were sprawled nearby in the grass. Between the long drying sheds, three gray, refrigerated semitrailers were lined nose to tail like elephants on parade. The truck windows and windshields were shot through and spiderwebbed. Behind the last semi was a black Dodge Viper with two dead men in the front seat. The pilot landed out by the highway, where a perimeter had been established. After checking in with the Virginia State Police lieutenant and the county sheriff, we went to the crime scene on foot. It was hot. Insects buzzed and drummed in the forest around the tobacco facility. Truck engines idling swallowed the sound of blowflies gathering around the Viper. “They’ve swept their way out again,” Mahoney said when we were ten yards from the Dodge. I looked at the glistening dirt road between the Viper and us. I saw faint grooves in the moist dirt and said, “Or raked.” The door to the muscle car was ajar. The window was down. The driver had taken a slug through the back of the skull, left occipital. Blood spattered the windshield and almost covered two bullet holes, one exiting, and one entering. The passenger in the Viper had been rocked back, his left eye a bloody socket and a spray of carnage behind him.

Propping her knee on the hood of the truck, she gripped the back lip of the hood for leverage and pulled herself up. She perched on top of the hood on all fours, took a bold breath, and ever so carefully scrawled across the front windshield: I OWE YOU A SCREW—Damn it! Her lipstick, warm from the day’s heat, broke and rolled down below the wipers

It was the middle of the afternoon, on a sunny day in early August of 1952, when we pulled into the bus dock in Bangor, Maine, located next to the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad Station. As I got off, I heard people talking about a moose that had run down the main street that morning, but I had my own problems. The Men’s Room in most bus and railroad terminals leaves a lot to be desired and this one was no exception, but now was not the time to complain. It had the usual disgusting engravings, with information on who would do what to whom, and how they could be contacted. The floor was also decorated with toilet paper, and someone forgot to flush, but my needs were urgent, and so I quickly overcame my inhibitions…. Not long after and much relieved, I emerged from the lavatory and looked around trying to get my bearings. Down the street, parked in front of a “No Parking” sign, I could see a blue school bus with “MMA” painted in white lettering above the windshield. This was my first contact with Maine Maritime Academy, the school that would shape my being for a lifetime.

From the front passenger seat, one of Yaqub’s fighters produced a short-barreled shotgun. As soon as Harvath saw it come above the line of the dashboard, he yelled, “Gun!” and fired multiple rounds through the windshield, killing the man instantly. The ISI driver tried to unholster his weapon, but Sloane was already at his window and fired two shots at his head, shattering the glass and killing him. When the fighter in the backseat on the passenger side made himself known, Chase had almost been on top of him. The man didn’t wait to get the door all the way open before firing. He sent heavy 7.62 rounds from his AK-47 slicing right through the door panel. Chase had to lunge between two parked cars to take cover and avoid being hit.

I should go out on the radio with it. Must be a slow day for the media—getting more what’s-happening calls from reporters than I am getting service calls from citizens. They all want to do something on the first one, the actress on Mulholland. You know, a death-of-a-Hollywood-dream story. And they’d probably jump all over this latest call, too.” “Yeah, what is it?” “A citizen up in Laurel Canyon. On Wonderland. He just called up and said his dog came back from a run in the woods with a bone in its mouth. The guy says it’s human—an arm bone from a kid.” Bosch almost groaned. There were four or five call outs like this a year. Hysteria always followed by simple explanation: animal bones. Through the windshield he saluted the two body movers from the coroner’s office as they headed to the front doors of the van. “I know what you’re thinking, Harry. Not another bone run. You’ve done it a hundred times and it’s always the same thing. Coyote, deer, whatever. But listen, this guy with the dog, he’s an MD. And he says there’s no doubt. It’s a humerus. That’s the upper arm bone.

Eddie Key had begun to store in his mind the names and adventures of ancestors on both his mother’s and father’s sides of his family when he was only six years old. As he sat in the front of the disaster vehicle, looking out through the windshield, he had the feeling that he himself was a vehicle, and that his eyes were windshields through which his progenitors could look, if they wished to.

Always try to get over failure quickly. Learn from it. Study how you contributed to it. If you are responsible for it, own up to it. Though others may have greater responsibility for it than you do, don’t look for that as an escape hatch. Once you have analyzed what went wrong and what you did wrong, internalize the lessons and then move on. As always, drive through life looking through the front windshield and not the rearview mirror. Don’t become one of those pests who can’t stop talking about their by now ancient slights, betrayals, hurts, or disasters. Don’t wallow with your sympathetic friends. Learn and move on.

I watch and try not to think. Everything is a film: a fly on the windshield trying to get in, a delivery truck parked in front of whatever to deliver something I will never savor, a plane carrying flesh messages across the sky. The movie is wonderful to watch when I’m not in it.

Burch’s description is a masterpiece of understatement: “As you go up to high altitudes, as you should be able to do, the glass becomes very cold. Then, if you come down through a layer of warm air with any moisture in it at all, the windshield, sight and everything fogs up. It’s like putting a white sheet in front of you and you have to bomb from memory. If you start down, watching anti-aircraft fire, with your sight well fixed, and then hit 8,000 feet and somebody puts a sheet in front of you, you feel sort of bad about it. You try to stick your head out over the side of the cockpit, and aim down the side at the target ship. That’s not very accurate bombing.

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I press the button and it opens. My fingers find the handle of the gun I’d seen stashed in here the first time I rode in this car. It’s easy to pick it up—too easy—and though the gun feels heavy in my grasp, it feels right too. I lift it and point towards the windshield. I picture the guys. One by one. Standing in a line in front of the twin beams of light pouring from the Mustang’s headlights.

The Monday night after Halloween, I made myself go to the college Bible study Willie was teaching. There were about six or seven other guys, and we met in the gym. Brian, the guy I’d seen at the party, was there too. I wasn’t too worried. Since he was at the party, he probably wasn’t too proud of himself and wouldn’t be telling my brother about it. But Willie got up in front of us and said, “I know some of you guys are struggling, and struggling hard.” That got my attention. I didn’t hear the rest of what he said, but I remember thinking, He’s never said anything like that before. A couple nights later, I got drunk and went to the movies. When I came out to the parking lot, I saw a note on the windshield of my truck. I picked it up and unfolded it. “I know what you’ve been up to. We need to talk.” It was from Willie.

I looked out the windshield in front of us at the milky water of the quarry. The surface shone brightly, even though it was completely dark now, which I thought was quite appropriate.

I love the wheels, I mean steering wheel.

You want to be a naughty girl?” he whispered. “You came to the right place.” Rising onto her knees, she turned and sat on his lap, facing the front windshield. Leaning back against his chest, she took his hands and placed them on her breasts before slowly sinking down on him once more, inch by inch. This time, she wasn’t allowed to moan her pleasure, and the restriction only ramped up the powerful ache. She hovered so close to release that it would only take a few upward thrusts of Daniel’s hips to make her come. His fingertips skimmed over her collarbone and neck. He hesitated for a split second before his big hand covered her mouth, preventing any sound from escaping. “Is this okay, baby?” Story caught of glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror, eyes dark and heavy with passion, Daniel’s hand over her lips. The erotic sight made her sex clench tightly around him. Closing her eyes, she nodded vigorously.” Excerpt From: Bailey, Tessa. “Officer Off Limits.” Entangled Publishing, LLC (Brazen), 2013-05-23T10:00:00+00:00. iBooks. This material may be protected by copyright.

When did they make this flick?” Johnny sat transfixed by the film playing out in life size beyond the front windshield of the Cadillac. The flickering lights reflected off the hard metal surfaces around the room, creating a constantly changing multi-colored glow that lit up Maggie’s smooth face with blue light. His own face seemed to repel it as if he were watching behind darkened glass. “I’m not sure exactly. It’s pretty old. Maybe sometime in the 1980’s,” Maggie mused, munching a handful of popcorn. “Gee – that is old,” Johnny quipped, his voice heavy with irony. “You made a joke, old man! Good job!” Maggie teased and offered the bag of popcorn to him. He shook his head. “I’ll have to show you sometime what happens to food when I attempt to eat it

David pulled a U-turn and re-traced their previous route to the church. Traffic on Queen Anne Blvd was heavy; making a left turn would be difficult. David hit the lights and blasted the siren a twice to safely navigate the left turn, and headed north up the steep hill. He gunned the Charger, and activated the siren several more times to clear slow cars ahead. Traffic moved to the right. A pale Dustin sat quietly on the passenger side. They crested Queen Anne hill, passing by Olympia’s Pizza on the right. A few drops of rain splattered on the windshield. David eased off the accelerator as pedestrians failed to notice their red and blue strobe lights and crossed the street in front of them. Another yelp of the siren startled a teenager in a mini skirt.

Nothing was more valuable than “windshield time” with my manager riding shotgun in my car. He would alternate between preaching sales theory to quizzing me about product knowledge or what was happening at each of my key customers. When we would pull up to an account, he always insisted I drive around the building. He would say, “You can learn a lot more about a business by watching what’s going in and out of the back door than the front door.” So, of course, twenty-two years later, I’m still sneaking around the back before sales calls and mentoring salespeople to do the same.

In China, the transition has been to abrupt that many traffic patterns come directly from pedestrian life - people drive the way they walk. They like to move in packs, and they tailgate whenever possible. They rarely use turn signals. Instead they rely on automobile body language: if a car edges to the left, you can guess that he's about to make a turn. And they are brilliant at improvising. They convert sidewalks into passing lanes, and they'll approach a roundabout in reverse direction if it seems faster. If they miss an exit on a highway, they simply pull onto the shoulder, shift into reverse, and get it right the second time. They curb-sneak in traffic jams, the same way Chinese people do in ticket lines. Tollbooths can be hazardous, because a history of long queues has conditioned people into quickly evaluation options and making snap decisions. When approaching a toll, drivers like to switch lanes at the last possible instant: it's common to see an accident right in front of a booth. Drivers rarely check their rearview mirrors. Windshield wipers are considered a distraction, and so are headlights.

You’re trying to change the subject, aren’t you?” “Definitely. In hindsight, that assistant comment probably wasn’t so slick. I should warn you—I may have these momentary Cro-Magnon lapses from time to time. Bygones.” Jordan opened her mouth to say something, then shut it. She threw her hands into the air. “How do you always do that? You tiptoe right to the edge of thoroughly pissing me off, then somehow you sweet-talk your way out of it.” Nick grinned. “Aha. I told you when we met that you’d know if I was sweet-talking you.” Jordan stared out the front windshield, shaking her head. “Seriously, I must’ve killed somebody’s prized goat or something in a former life. And this is my penance.” He laughed. “Oh, admit it. You love it.” “That’s the penance part. My slow descent into madness.” Seeing the grin curling at the edges of her lips, Nick leaned forward in his seat to kiss her. “Aw, you say the sweetest things.” And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Turning on her side, she felt the friction from the rough carpet burn her exposed skin. The movement sent a shard of pain through the back of her skull. Ignoring the screaming protest of her shoulder, she dug behind her until her hand closed around the butt of her SIG P226. A few tugs and it was free. A tiny voice was yelling frantically from the mangled front seat. Renee collapsed onto her back, pistol in hand, and looking up into the front seat, she saw Joseph lying still against the steering wheel. He was bleeding heavily. A shadow appeared at his window. Renee struggled to focus and then the window exploded as the muzzle of an M4 punched through the glass. Her pistol came up, guided by the primitive part of her brain, and she fired two shots from her place on the floor. She heard the man grunt as blood misted onto the spiderwebbed windshield. Reaching above her head and grabbing the latch, Renee pushed the door open with her head. The fresh air felt good as she twisted herself onto her stomach and clawed her way out of the Jeep. A burst of rifle fire hit the Jeep like a handful of gravel being thrown against an aluminum building. She struggled to her feet as what was left of the windshield exploded into the air

Inspect the van as if you owned it at pickup to avoid being charged for damages that you did not cause. Thoroughly scan the roof, the front windshield, and the entire van. Check underneath the rear of the van for the spare tire and jack. The rental agents are trained to find incoming damage and will not be aggressive in helping you mark damage when you pick up the van.

I wrote you a note,” she began, and if he thought he’d felt tension before, he wasn’t too sure he wasn’t about to lose his breakfast after that little announcement. “I didn’t know if your phone worked here, and even if it does, I don’t have the number. Same goes for e-mail. I could have left a message at the inn, but then I might as well have posted it on the bulletin board outside the town hall for the whole world to read.” She lifted a shoulder. “So I thought I’d take a page from your book--a very charming one, I might add,” she said, glancing up at him from the corner of her eye. “But the doors to your car were locked, and I didn’t put it under your windshield wiper for the same reason I didn’t leave a message with Grace.” She let out a little breath. “But I did write you a note. I just wanted to go on record. Because I know what I did with Sadie, and you’re probably thinking--” “I’m thinking that unless you’re about to tell me to bugger off back to Australia and never darken your door again, I’m about to be all those things I promised not to be and kiss you senseless right here on the dock, in front of God, the seagulls, and anyone else who happens to be watching, and damn the consequences.

He also has Sadie,” Kerry added. “Unless Big Jack is so old-school that he can’t picture a woman running the family empire.” Cooper shot her a quick smile. “I think we both know that Sadie’s not meant to live her whole life on Cameroo Downs. I can’t even--don’t want to--think about the time when she’ll be wanting to head off, but I’m fair to certain she will.” “What makes you say that?” He glanced at Kerry again. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Starfish. She’s got a bit of the wanderlust herself. You’re her hero.” Kerry ducked her chin, but she was smiling. When he looked at her again, she was staring through the front windshield, a mix of wistfulness and guilt on her face. “I didn’t say that to make you feel bad.” “I know,” she said. “But I do, all the same.” She shifted in her seat so she was angled more toward him. “Whatever happens between us, I’d like it if--do you think she’d still want to hear from me?” He nodded immediately. “She’s got a huge heart, as you know, and she misses you greatly. She’d be over the moon.” “She’s counting on you to bring me home, isn’t she.” She didn’t make it a question. “They all are,” he said quite honestly. “But they won’t hold it against you if your heart says otherwise. They--we--wouldn’t want you there if it’s not where you want to be.” He looked back to the road. “You’ve two families who support your life choices now, you know, regardless of their own wants or desires.” He didn’t look at her then, well aware that he’d added to the guilt and fear she already was feeling. He supposed, if he were being brutally honest, she’d earned a bit of the guilt where it concerned not staying in touch with Sadie as she’d promised, but the rest…well, it was all water under the bridge now. “I appreciate that,” she said in a quiet but steady voice. “More than you know. More than I knew.

Sheriff Tubman padded down his driveway in a blue bathrobe cinched tight and fat moccasin slippers. His hair was mussed and his ankles were skinny and mottled and so white they almost looked blue in the dawn. As he bent over to retrieve his newspaper he heard the sound of the motor and looked up, puzzled. Cassie watched him closely as he registered who was in the county Ford. As she pulled up in front of him and stopped, he rose to full height and squinted at her through the windshield, holding the newspaper down at his side. His studied arrogance hadn’t kicked in yet, which is what she counted on. She shoved the big Ford into park and climbed out. The front bumper of the vehicle was just a few feet away from him. She got out and shut the door but kept the engine running. The purr of the motor was the only sound. “Nice place,” she said, walking up alongside the vehicle. She took a side step at the front and leaned back against the grille and crossed her arms under her breasts. It was a posture she’d seen Cody Hoyt assume many times; passive but judgmental at the same time. She’d been surprised how many times perps started yapping and volunteering information they never would otherwise because they assumed Cody had the goods on them.

plane. Bill was putting gas in the left wing when he looked over at us and said, "You okay with a little turbulence?" Without hesitating I answered, "Yeah, no problem." I thought about it for a minute then asked, "How much turbulence are we talking about?" "It shouldn't be too bad." Then why did you mention it? I thought to myself. Now I was the one worried. I dug through my backpack and found my tube of ten-year-old Dramamine. Karen had a full water bottle so I swallowed a pill with a couple of long gulps. Bill asked which one of us wanted to sit up front with him. I looked at Karen and she said, "God no!" Karen climbed in the single back seat and Bill placed our backpacks next to her. Karen kept the plywood Kobuk sign at her feet. With the co-pilot seat pushed back into Karen's knees, I wriggled my way across the pilot's seat and settled in the front right seat of the plane. It was hard getting in without bumping against the controls and switches on the dashboard. I could imagine the windshield wipers flapping and the radio blaring like a high school practical joke when Bill started the engine. Or worse, that in flight he wouldn't find that one critical setting that I'd changed until it was too late and the plane was plunging to the ground. I decided to not say anything and assume he would check them before the flight like pilots are supposed to do. Besides, I'm sure he's had more clumsy passengers with bigger butts than me shoehorn themselves into the co-pilot's seat before. Bill taxied the plane slowly to one end of the pond giving us room to takeoff and allowing the engine to warm up. When Bill turned the plane toward the direction of our takeoff and gunned the engine, I was surprised at how close we were to the trees on the approaching shore. But my concern was unnecessary; by the time we reached the trees we were well above them. In an instant, we were high enough in the sky to

the chain-of-custody document to the back of the search warrant application and was ready to go. “I’m out of here,” she announced. “You ever want to get together after work, I’m here, Amy. At least until the late show starts.” “Thanks,” Dodd said, seeming to pick up on Ballard’s worry. “I might take you up on that.” Ballard took the elevator down and then crossed the front plaza toward her car. She checked the windshield and saw no ticket. She decided to double down on her luck and leave the car there. The courthouse was only a block away on Temple; if she was fast and Judge Thornton had not convened court, she could be back to the car in less than a half hour. She quickened her pace. Judge Billy Thornton was a well-regarded mainstay in the local criminal justice system. He had served both as a public defender and as a deputy district attorney in his early years, before being elected to the bench and holding the position in Department 107 of the Los Angeles Superior Court for more than a quarter century. He had a folksy manner in the courtroom that concealed a sharp legal mind—one reason the presiding judge assigned wiretap search warrants to him. His full name was Clarence William Thornton but he preferred Billy, and his bailiff called it out every time he entered the courtroom: “The Honorable Billy Thornton presiding.” Thanks to the inordinately long wait for an elevator in the fifty-year-old courthouse, Ballard did not get to Department 107 until ten minutes before ten a.m., and she saw that court was about to convene. A man in blue county jail scrubs was at the defense table with his suited attorney sitting next to him. A prosecutor Ballard recognized but could not remember by name was at the other table. They appeared ready to go and the only party missing was the judge on the bench. Ballard pulled back her jacket so the badge on her belt could be seen by the courtroom deputy and went through the gate. She moved around the attorney tables and went to the clerk’s station to the right of the judge’s bench. A man with a fraying shirt collar looked up at her. The nameplate on his desk said ADAM TRAINOR. “Hi,” Ballard whispered, feigning breathlessness so Trainor would think she had run up the nine flights of steps and take pity. “Is there any chance I can get in to see the judge about a wiretap warrant before he starts court?” “Oh, boy, we’re just waiting on the last juror to get here before starting,” Trainor said. “You might have to come back at the lunch break.” “Can you please just ask him? The warrant’s only seven pages and most of it’s boilerplate stuff he’s read a million times. It won’t take him long.” “Let me see. What’s your name and department?” “Renée Ballard, LAPD. I’m working a cold case homicide. And there is a time element on this.” Trainor picked up his phone, punched a button, and swiveled on his chair so his back was to Ballard and she would have difficulty hearing the phone call. It didn’t matter because it was over in twenty seconds and Ballard expected the answer was no as Trainor swiveled toward her. But she was wrong. “You can go back,” Trainor said. “He’s in his chambers. He’s got about ten minutes. The missing juror just called from the garage.” “Not with those elevators,” Ballard said. Trainor opened a half door in the cubicle that allowed Ballard access to the rear door of the courtroom. She walked through a file room and then into a hallway. She had been in judicial chambers on other cases before and knew that this hallway led to a line of offices assigned to the criminal-court judges. She didn’t know whether to go right or left until she heard a voice say, “Back here.” It was to the left. She found an open door and saw Judge Billy Thornton standing next to a desk, pulling on his black robe for court. “Come in,” he said. Ballard entered. His chambers were just like the others she had been

I knew this trailer park well. It was a part of my childhood. I came to a stop in front of Beaus’ trailer. It would be easier to believe that this was the alcohol talking, but I knew it wasn’t. We hadn’t been alone in over four years. Since the moment I became Sawyer’s girlfriend, our relationship had changed. I took a deep breath, then turned to look at Beau. “I never talk in class. Not to anyone but the teacher. You never talk to me at lunch, so I have no reason to look your way. Attracting your attention leads to you making fun of me. And, at the field, I’m not looking at you with disgust. I’m looking at Nicole with disgust. You could really do much better than her.” I stopped myself before I said anything stupid. He tilted his head to the side as if studying me. “You don’t like Nicole much, do you? You don’t have to worry about her hang-up with Sawyer. He knows what he’s got, and he isn’t going to mess it up. Nicole can’t compete with you.” Nicole had a thing for Sawyer? She was normally mauling Beau. I’d never picked up on her liking Sawyer. I knew they’d been an item in seventh grade for, like, a couple of weeks, but that was junior high school. It didn’t really count. Besides, she was with Beau. Why would she be interested in anyone else? “I didn’t know she liked Sawyer,” I replied, still not sure I believed him. Sawyer was so not her type. “You sound surprised,” Beau replied. “Well, I am, actually. I mean, she has you. Why does she want Sawyer?” A pleased smile touched his lips making his hazel eyes light up. I realized I hadn’t exactly meant to say something that he could misconstrue in the way he was obviously doing. He reached for the door handle before pausing and glancing back at me. “I didn’t know my teasing bothered you, Ash. I’ll stop.” That hadn’t been what I was expecting him to say. Unable to think of a response, I sat there holding his gaze. “I’ll get your car switched back before your parents see my truck at your house in the morning.” He stepped out of the truck, and I watched him walk toward the door of his trailer with one of the sexiest swaggers known to man. Beau and I had needed to have that talk, even if my imagination was going to go wild for a while, where he was concerned. My secret attraction to the town’s bad boy had to remain a secret. The next morning, I found my car parked in the driveway, as promised, with a note wedged under the windshield wipers. I reached for it, and a small smile touched my lips. “Thanks for last night. I’ve missed you.” He had simply sighed it “B.

The first explosion detonated in the road directly in front of our bus. There was a blinding flash of light and then a concussion of air that shattered the windshield and knocked me flat. The bus was thrown sideways like a Matchbox car and slammed into the rock face. Dust and debris ballooned through the gap in the window, coating me, Alexander, and everyone in the first three rows. Someone screamed in terror next to me. I thought it was one of the girls in my class, but when I sat up and wiped the dust from my eyes, I found it was Nate Mackey. He was on the floor in the fetal position, white as a sheet. “We’re going to die!” he screamed. “We’re going to die!” I looked to Woodchuck for help. Unfortunately, he was slumped in his seat, unconscious. Perhaps he’d been clocked in the head by a piece of flying debris. Or maybe he’d simply fainted in fear. Whatever the case, he wasn’t going to be any help. A second explosion went off in the road behind the bus. Out the back window, I saw part of the road crumble and plummet into the gorge, cutting off our escape route.

I only go through life looking through the front windshield, not the back or side view mirror.

There was a rodeo going on in McGregor, and there was a horse named Gracious Will, likely getting its name from the eleventh chapter of Matthew. Jesus marvels to God that children like Sarah can see what matters in life better than the supposedly wise. “Yes, Father, for such was your gracious will.” Gracious Will did not perform well that day, and the kid in charge of the horse was angry. So angry he hit the animal, and so hard the horse took off running. The horse made it to the highway, narrowly missing two cars as it galloped against traffic. It stopped and stood in a ditch on the side of the road. As the pickup was about to pass, the horse suddenly leaped in front of it, going through the windshield and landing on top of Sarah.

We were in the middle of a three car caravan accompanied by Jim Carlisle, a career diplomat and the perfect Charge’ de Affaires. His manner was formal but always with a practiced smile to make his counterparts feel at ease. He sat in the jump seat in front of Owen, Alex and I sat together in the back near the double cargo doors guarding the luggage. The driver was Pakistani as was the security guard on the passenger side. The cars were crossing a bridge when it happened. First the blinding flash, then the delayed sound, it was deafening with the unmistakable smell of high explosives. The Ford Expedition in front erupted in a mushroom cloud of smoke and fire as it leaped off the road and settled back in a black pile of melting plastic, glass and metal. Our driver slammed on the brakes, ramming the gear into reverse while twisting his body around for a better view out the rear door windows. It was to late, the car behind us had met the same fate, we were bookended by smoking heaps of scrap metal as the masked bombers, five of them, surrounded our SUV. This was a professional hit team, their leader was calm, he directed the others with chilling efficiency. They wore black ski masks, bullet proof vests and ear phone sets, only the leader spoke, the others took orders. The shortest one had a knapsack, he turned his back to another who unzipped it and removed the gray matter, it looked like putty, he slapped it hard against the double rear doors. These would be the most vulnerable, they locked together rather than to the structural integrity of the vehicle. Both doors exploded out and away from the car dangling precariously on their hinges. The short one jumped in first, throwing the luggage out and scrambling towards us as our security guard leveled his government issue Glock-45, he hesitated to long, the red dot sighting device from the backup shooter was in the center of his forehead. The bone and brain fragment from the melon sized exit wound in the back of his head splattered against the windshield. The driver went for the concealed weapon under the front seat but thought better of it as the bombers surrounded the vehicle. Outside the driver side window, the leader hit the bullet proof glass with the butt of his matt black automatic, he wanted the doors opened, the driver had already hit the lock release.

Rain pounded on the Packard, reverberating through the car and into her bones. The wipers going full speed, banging on the steel frame of the windshield like a metronome out of control, she still could not see more than a few feet in front of her.

Rina!" I shouted, but the radio was up loud -something sad and gooey- and she didn't hear me. I hit the horn, twice, startling the minivan with a Pro-Choice sticker in front of me, which quickly changed lanes. We kept cruising neck and neck, with Rina full-out brawling now, singing along with the radio, tears running down her face, completely oblivious to both me and the speed limit. I reached under my seat and searched around until I came up with an empty plastic Coke bottle, which I then hurled at her windshield. she jerked back from the wheel as it bounced off, then whipped her around, eyes wide, and finally saw me. "Shit!" she screamed, hitting the automatic window control to open the one nearest me. "What the hell are you doing?