By Chris Cochran
We sit on the curb and watch the fluids from two crumpled cars pool together on the cool asphalt. Sirens blare in the distance. A woman screams at us in Spanish from across the street. The reflection of the traffic light above diffuses amongst the wreckage. It changes from green to yellow to red.
I met him two hours ago. I know a little about his job, about his family. He seems honest, but a little insecure.
“It was green, right?” he asks, and my breath catches sharply. I squeeze back tears and tell him what he needs to hear.
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Chris Cochran is a high school English teacher who writes first drafts on an old typewriter in a small nook beneath his basement steps. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son, where he spends most evenings drinking tea and falling asleep to comedy podcasts.