It was night. Dark. She rested her head on the window and looked up at the motorway lights, flashing past in a regular rhythm. It was comforting, added to the content, fulfilled feeling she had after a week’s half-term holiday. They’d been to Cornwall and even though it was October, it had been unseasonably warm; the sun had shone every day.
It was quiet because it was so late. Only a few other cars passed them. And lorries, there were quite a few lorries, getting their goods to their final destination. She liked to look at the number plate country codes. Think of holidays in European lands: Holland, Spain, France. She remembered a trip to Brittany on the ferry a couple of years ago. They had eaten lots of crepes. Played as a family on the beach.
When she saw the lorry move across the lane, she thought it was overtaking at first. But it kept on coming. Closer and closer.
She always asked herself the same questions. What had gone through his mind when the lorry hit them? Was he scared? Did he feel the impact? What was it like for him when he died?