“You were too slow. I died,” the girl spat, straddling over me and shaking me by the collar. “What have you done to me? How could this happen?” As I began to open my mouth, the girl’s hand flew out and slapped my cheek, then a second time, and a third. I felt the back of my nose plugging up with blood. But I had no right to complain about what she was doing. Because I’d killed her. Granted, my victim was quite heartily beating the stuffing out of me still, but no doubt, I’d run her over going over 80 kilometers an hour. At that speed? At that distance? No braking, no swerving could have prevented the inevitable. The girl balled up her fist and struck me repeatedly in the face and chest. I felt little pain while being beaten up, but the impact of bone against bone unsettled me. She seemed to get exhausted, coughed fiercely and tried to catch her breath, and finally stopped. The rain continued to pour as always. “Hey, can you explain what happened here?”, I asked. The inside of my mouth had been cut, and it tasted like licking iron. “I ran you over and killed you. That seems pretty undeniable. So, why are you unhurt and moving around? Why isn’t there a scratch on the car?” Rather than answer, the girl stood up and kicked me in the flank. Actually, maybe it would be better to say she stomped me with the weight of her whole body. That was effective; a pain shot through me like my organs had been stabbed with a stake. I felt all the air leave my lungs. For a while, I couldn’t breathe. If I’d had a little more in my stomach, I’d probably have vomited. Seeing me curl up feebly and hack in anguish, the girl seemed satisfied to an extent and stopped with the violence. I stayed down on the ground, face-up toward the rain until the pain cleared. When I raised myself to stand up, the girl extended a hand to me. Unsure of her intent, I stared at it blankly. “Do you want to lie down there forever? Stand up already,” she insisted. “I’ll