My father took
     one hundred and thirty-two minutes
     to
     die.

I counted.

It happened on the Jellicoe Road.
The prettiest road I'd ever seen,
where trees made   b r  e   e    z     y    canopies
like a tunnel to Shangri-la.

We were going to the ocean, hundreds of miles away, because I wanted to see the ocean and my father said that it was about time the four of us made that journey.
I remember asking, "What's the difference between a trip and a journey?"
and my father said, "Narnie, my love, when we get there, you'll understand,"
and that was
the last thing
he
ever
said.

We heard her almost straightaway.
In the other car,
wedged into ours so deep that you couldn't tell
whereonebeganandtheotherended.
She told us her name was Tate and then she
squeezedthroughtheglassandthesteel
andclimbedoverherowndead—
just to be with Webb and me; to give us her hand
sowecouldclutchitwithallourmight.

And then a kid called Fitz came riding by on a stolen bike and saved our lives.

Someone asked us later,
"Didn't you wonder
     why
     no
     one
     came
     across
     you
     sooner?"

Did I wonder?

When you see your parents zipped up in black body bags on the Jellicoe Road like they're some kind of garbage,
don't
you
know

      ?

     Wonder

                    d
                      i
                        e
                          s
                            .