We Should All Be More Afraid of Driving
I thought I saw something in the road.
It was after 1 a.m. one night in April 2016, and I was heading home from a friend’s house on the outskirts of Atlanta. From a distance, the dark spot looked like an oil stain. Then she turned her head and my headlights lit her face. A woman in dark clothing was standing in my lane on Interstate 75. I pounded the brake, but I was too late.
Her body crashed into my windshield and her head hit the top of my car before she landed, crumpled, in the middle of the highway. When my car finally stopped, I raced over to her. I felt sure she was dead. But when I reached down to pick her up off the road, she moved.
After the police arrived, an officer took me aside and told me how the investigation would go. The police would impound my car, and if, after 24 hours, it appeared the woman would live, they’d release the vehicle. If she died, or appeared likely to die, investigators would need to test the car’s computer system to make sure the data aligned with my statements.
I spent the next day on the couch, trying not to cry when people called to check on me. Everyone said the same thing: It wasn’t my fault. A police officer on the scene said it. Two men who’d seen the impact from the next lane over said it. The tow-truck driver did too. But I couldn’t stop seeing the woman hitting the windshield, seeing myself slamming down on the brake. Why didn’t I just swerve?
An officer
