Tell Everyone I Said Hi [antikvár]

Miracle My brother calls and says to get to the bar as fast as I can—he thinks he just died. Later, he will show me the bruise—a tire-wide swath of mottled purple and pale green — streaked up the inside of his thigh and the middle of his chest, where his own car ran him over. He will be high on something, and half-feral, and he will call it a miracle: how the tire track stops just below his neck; how the car didn't crush him. And I will imagine him standing next to his car as it began to roll downhill. I will imagine him catching up to the car and getting behind it, putting up his hands like he's Superman stopping a train. I will imagine the car running straight over him.