Rio

I slapped the paperwork on the desk, sat down and stared at it for a few seconds. My truck was fine but her vehicle could not drive out on its own. A man did arrive to pick her up but he said nothing to her or me, he just talked to the police officer, took similar paperwork and they drove off.
The address on my license still listed my house, so maybe he would go there and take out my “replacement”, thinking it was me; a mistaken identity, a la American Beauty. I’d save a bit more on court fees, but then she would say she was traumatized and that I had given the police the wrong address on purpose.
I knew she’d try to do that—the Gerard would be turning in her head as he would lay dying.
“No death, no one has to die,” I whispered. “Except for my savings and blemish feee insurance record.”
The other driver told the police that she she had stopped short because she was looking at a text on her phone and misjudged the distance of the vehicle behind her as she slowed down. I didn’t say a word that I was distracted. I didn’t say I felt disconnected a few moment before the impact. I refused to say that I either wanted to go on a rampage a la “Falling Down” or just wanted to drive my truck off the Hernando DeSoto bridge.