In the Absence of Predators (Short Story‪)‬

Driving north. I'm driving north, and I feel fine: Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire. Little towns drift past, charming, colonial places, saltbox architecture. I admire the church steeples and simple buildings--their wholesome austerity, their right angles and straight lines--but I don't stop. The miles fall away. Rolling hills, deep woods, an ocean of trees. Snow begins falling, then falling harder, but I keep moving and I feel fine until the accident. The accident happens like this: crest a rise on the highway and there she is, no avoiding her. A doe. She begins to move just before the collision, but I catch her in the flank with the right side of my grille, spinning her onto the shoulder. The Buick's back end skids out of control in the opposite direction. I take my hand off the wheel and allow the car to turn 180 degrees, plowing backwards into a snow bank, headlights pointing back at the prostrate animal. Quiet, wind, snow falling, no other cars. The deer isn't making any hasty moves.