my sleeve.
“Mom, what did she mean?”
“I don’t know.”
That was a lie.
I knew exactly which red light she meant.
What I couldn’t understand was how Monica knew.
Daniel and I met twenty-seven years earlier because he ran a red light while turning and clipped me while I was crossing the street.
I wasn’t seriously injured.
Daniel had been horrified.
He insisted on driving me to the hospital himself, stayed until the doctors released me, drove me home, and returned the next morning carrying coffee and another apology.
