I don’t know how many accidents happen here each year, but I’ve died forty-three times tonight: one death for each curve in the road. My dad is driving. Usually, he’s the least dangerous person in the world. He’s the guy who brakes hard on yellow and then sticks it in reverse, returning to the white line before the light turns red. Seriously, I've been there when it's happened. But on this road, late at night with headlights coming from all angles, the only thing to do is bury my head in a pillow and wonder if he’s going too fast.