Cam drove fast down Hale Street. He didn’t like the way Alexa sounded. He wanted to get to her. He forced himself to rely on what made him a good golfer: patience, and focus, and calm in the midst of chaos. He thought about Mickelson and that final putt in 2004. He put his hands at ten and two on the wheel, the way he’d learned to drive. He focused on the road; he focused on Alexa.
“I’m coming,” he said out loud. “I’m coming, Alexa.” She had told him not to come, but of course he would. He’d get the car back to her; he’d make sure she was okay.
That’s when the deer ran out in front of him and froze.
Cam’s last coherent thought—his very last thought ever—was “That looks like a deer in the headlights!” which was something he’d have to remember to tell Alexa, because even though she’d roll her eyes he knew she’d laugh on the inside, and sometimes the inside laughs were the best kind.
He swerved to avoid the deer, and the pole was coming toward him, and there was the most terrific crunch of metal, and then everything went black. Except for a far-off light in the distance, no bigger than the head of a pin. And he wanted to say, “Alexa, hold on, I’m coming for you, I love you.” But he couldn’t say anything at all.