This is the 95th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
Today arrived with a crash of my car through the garage door. I don’t have a garage. I don’t know where I am.
The owners of the house—I’m guessing—appear in the doorway moments later. With the car halfway in and halfway out like this, I can see their perfect front lawn on one side and total wreckage on the other. I can’t help but think of all those times as a kid when I would don my swimming goggles and look at the sky and water at the same time like a split screen.
The people in the doorway are yelling, and I realize I recognize them. They live three houses down from me.
I’m on my street.
I remember leaving that last rest stop around 3 a.m. and deciding to power through to get home. I didn’t have money for another hotel room.
I don’t have money to fix this door, either.
Miles Away 