By liz petrone
The Mercedes came out of nowhere. One second I was driving along, singing badly mangled lyrics to whatever '90s hip-hop I could dredge up from the bowels of the radio presets, and the next I was inches from tail-lights. I slammed on my brakes and my arm shot out sideways in that instinctual mum-baton to protect my beloved passenger, ignoring both that this was the exact purpose of seatbelts and that the 'beloved' was currently just my dry cleaning. An adrenaline-rage cocktail swept down my limbs and pooled into my toes, which were curled around the brake pedal in a manic embrace.
In short: I
