Suburban style van, with its stained coffee cup and sheaned sheets. The ceiling that sags and the mail tucked into the windshield, with the dent on the right of the bumper. The keys in the ignition, the fire has started. Will you drive?

Father, staples in his head. The windshield, cracked and covered in blood, that the dealer never fixed, dues not paid.

On his way. The crash, the family always in the second lane, the lights just right, the four wheels stable on the ground. They all wear seat belts. The way it should be.

You know, if everyone lived in a perfect world, there would be no heroes.

But seatbelts got nothing when you’re falling down a waterfall, tumbling over a cliff, spiraling into the darkness. Out of the margins, he ran. There wasn’t time to brighten the lights. It was like everyone expected.

The shriek of the girl in the car seat as her headband flies off and her dark hair lashes across her face. Her sister with blurry glasses who chooses not to believe. The one who holds them with a steady hand in her safe grip, clutching all she has as if that is all she knows anymore.

Will you drive?
Jagged scars, neat stitches. The police are counting the minutes in his hospital room. Dues to be paid. He never wakes up.

Out of the margins. As if their hearts just stopped, tossed to the wind, swirling in the water, pushed over the edge.

Scars that will never fade. He wakes up; the family ash to wind, as if he has forgotten he was once part of it.

Family, eyes stricken, they drown in tears and no longer open. If the mother has lost her hands, the girl her voice, the sister her glasses. Forgotten, they do not wake up.

If one day they remember, open their eyes, hands, glasses, the voice. Second hand of the city van.
The keys in the ignition, the fire has started.

The crash you almost died in. Just like everyone expected.

Except it wasn’t.
Open your eyes.
Scars that will never fade. 
Everything turns to ash.
You drove.