Six lanes of highway and two kids in the car. A fat river of cars pushed her along smooth and fast. They were traveling through Atlanta, the Sun hot overhead, glinting off the cars.
The motorcyclist came so quick and close to her car she nearly swerved, but then he was gone. If her window had been down she could have reached out and touched him ever so gently as he raced past, her hand praying, her fingers spread. She watched him weave through the current of cars ahead, her heart in her throat.
And then there was another, and another, and another. A whole troupe of motorcycles, roaring past, dodging bumpers and racing down the highway. She watched them come up in her rear view mirror, then disappear into the cars ahead, leaning and swerving this way and that.
Her sons reacted with excitement, but she could barely catch her breath. “They are dancing with death,” she told her boys, and she felt that, she felt the dark shadow that chased them, hot on their heels, felt it reach out and grab at her, tearing her breath from her body for one hot and terrible second.