And All The Misery That Fell In-Between.
Playing Chicken on the Railroad Tracks: more dangerous than it looks when both your feet are strapped to the wooden ties and a train's heading straight for you.
Greg had a record three days off in a row at the end of July. The twenty-eighth until midnight on the thirtieth. Everyone expected him to go to California for a cherished day or two to see his parents, but he surprised them all – he was going nowhere.
Well, nowhere important, that is. On purpose.
His cabinet had been perfectly stocked full of his favorite liquors, but soon the supply had dwindled by the evening of the twenty-ninth. Greg hadn't even drunk himself into a dreamless sleep (maybe "coma" would better suffice) yet.
However, his judgment was off. Completely off. Like other people about to make the biggest mistake of their lives –
(or maybe the last decision of their lives)
– he thought he'd be fine to drive.
If anyone – even a child – had seen him fall on his way to his car, his keys jingling in an oddly ominous way as he held them in his sweaty hand, that person would have stopped him or at the very least tried to stop him.
Everyone knew not to do it, but still people are killed from someone driving while under the influence of alcohol every single day.
Greg survived. The girl he hit did not.