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
    • where one began
    • and
    • the
    • other
    • ended.

    She told us her name was Tate
    and then she squeezed through
    the glass and the steel
    and climbed over her own dead—
    just to be with Webb and me;
    to give us her hand
    so we could clutch it
    with all our might.
    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
         .