The speedometer hit a hundred twice as you drove us North. We found your son a red wreck of beer, sex, jealousy. His eyes like those suns you see in winter, bleeding along the fibers of the sky, limbs scalded in a brew of hate and pain. The girl he’d broken off with (but still possessed in some unspoken terms an outsider like me could never understand) had gone to bed with a guy he would have killed if we hadn’t showed, if you hadn’t talked him down. Floored him and his vices, big as he was. You had his buddies take the battery from his car, stash it where the sober could hardly find it; we left him asleep, or just about, cradling his head in expectation, a burned-out squib, a bomb that could only silently tick, implode. Then you drove us home, a woman vindicated. On the way, our headlights paralyzed a possum, his bared teeth, fur, tensed nails a white glare, except the eyes, two yellow hazard lights; the thud echoed from bumper to universal. “Don’t look,” you said, not slowing, not swerving, not flattered God would give you dominion over such a thing.