White Lines

He extends a hand as she boards the ambulance. Bandaged hands hover above her knees like day-old helium balloons. He shifts to fifth along the only road in and out of the town.

His eyes flicker in the rear-view mirror. “Don’t worry love, if I had a dollar for every time someone put their hands through a glass window I’d be driving a golf buggy in Hawaii.”

She smiles. His eyebrows crease in the side-view mirror. White lines.

He arches his left arm towards his neck exposing a scar on his forearm under the dashboard lights: Danni, it reads.

White lines.