Bryden Frost is running late. She has to pick up her daughter, Clara, from day care within the next few minutes or she will get a reprimand and a lateness fee. She doesn't care about the fee, it's the reprimand she wants to avoid. She knows to expect traffic at five o'clock on a Tuesday in late January, in Albany, New York, a city of about one hundred thousand, but today it's worse than usual. It's stop and start. She glances down at her cell phone in the coffee cup holder to her right, anxious that it will light up with a call from the day care. Or a text. Why do they text her when they must know she's in the car, on her way?
She fumes behind a large truck that blocks her view so that she can’t see what’s going on ahead. What the hell is the problem? She thinks of adorable little Clara, the light of her life, waiting for her at the day care. Is she the only one left? No, she can’t be. Some kids and staff stay later, kids whose parents work longer hours. At three, is she old enough to realize her mother is late to pick her up? To feel sad, forgotten? Have they put her in her little pink corduroy jacket already? And is her little heart falling as all the other children are swooped into eager arms? Or is she distracted by some kind childcare worker—Hilda perhaps, who is so caring and adept at addressing any potential hurts before they happen? That woman is worth her weight in gold. But if it’s Sandy, she will be looking at her phone, thinking about her own plans, not caring about Clara’s feelings. And Clara is such a sensitive thing. Her little orchid child.
“For fuck’s sake!” Bryden mutters in exasperation at the delay. It’s now 5:04 p.m. and she was meant to pick up Clara by 5:00. She should ask if she can work from home more. It would make things easier. Traffic begins to move again, and she spots an opening to her right. She nips in quickly, hoping to get out from behind the tall truck and to make up time. An intersection is just ahead of her, and she prays the light won’t turn red before she gets through. There’s a sleek black Tesla in front of her. She hears the ping of a text and automatically glances down at her phone. She sees the name Dandylion Day Care, and then she is thrown forward against her seat belt, assaulted by a horrific screeching noise.
She feels the crash, the shock of it, the extraordinary sound of it, even at only twenty miles per hour. She looks up in disbelief and realizes that she has plowed into the Tesla in front of her, which has come to a halt in front of a yellow light that turns red as she looks ahead of her. Fuck!