That was the summer we all drank tequila by the gallon. Not really, of course—if that had been true we all would have ended up dead, instead of only one person. Although there was no alcohol involved. It was your garden-variety car accident, the Acura crushed against the pole on that deserted stretch of Hale Street, the driver dead on impact.
Garden-variety. It happened all the time. Except that it wasn’t, and it didn’t, not in our town.