We're driving around a corner, maybe too fast, maybe not. I'm only a passenger � only a passenger like usual � in the moment that separates my one life from the next. The road is wet, the rain slicking the pavement, but that's par for the course in this city.

We go around the corner and hydro-plane. That in itself isn't unusual; not even that frightening. Driving in this city equals hydroplaning. One gets used to it. The difference is, we clip the cement barrier, and land on the tracks just off the crossing, just to the left of the actual crossing, on the bare tracks themselves. It happens in one moments, I remember clearly a loud noise, and a flash of yellow light. It's the airbag going off, I realize later. My face slams into it. We have crashed.

Bear in mind: this is a relatively minor accident. We get out of the car, examine the damage. The driver is panicked; I, as a passenger, am just grateful everything is okay and wishing it weren't raining, wet fat drops making us as slick as the road. Droplets must have fallen down my face, making my nose, my cheeks, wet. I can't remember it now.

What happens is this: I look behind me, and see a light in the distance. I become aware of a vibration in my feet: a train quake. I know the sensation from growing up in this suburb. There's a train in the distance coming to hit the car. Later, I realise: there's a train in the distance, coming to hit us.

Strange as it seems, I've never examined this particular incident. I just accepted it as another stopping point in life. A train didn't hit us, and probably should have; the universe takes care of the balances, and we only deal with the aftermath, standing in another subway station, staring down the tunnel and wondering what it would feel like to have the cars hit, crunch bone and marrow, instead of harmlessly passing through.