My father and my mother were in the front seat of a car which my father was driving, while my brother Chris and I were sitting in the back seat, with Chris on my right. My father and mother each looked as if they were about 40 years old, while Chris looked to be nine or ten. We were headed to the Gallia County Farm and were about 15 kilometers away, passing through the small town of Oak Hill.

Although I didn't want to fall asleep, I was dozing as we rode along. I was thinking about how I wanted to start contacting people whom I used to know, people like my old classmate from high school, Clifford, whom I hadn't seen for so long. I used to maintain contact with quite a few people, often writing letters. But over time, I had stopped all correspondence, and now I wanted to start it up again.

My musings were abruptly interrupted. We had just reached the train tracks which passed through Oak Hill, when my father suddenly slammed on his brakes. A car in front of us was stopped in front of the tracks, and my father swerved to avoid hitting it. Unfortunately, my father veered into the oncoming lane of traffic, and crashed into the front of another car. Our car bounced off the other car and kept going until finally grinding to a stop. I blurted out, "Is it on the tracks?" I was referring to our car, which had come to a stop on the railroad tracks. My father acknowledged that the car was on the tracks, and then backed off the tracks into the grass.

My father and I stepped out of the car at the same time the woman in the car which we had hit climbed out of hers. She examined her car – a light-blue Corvette – and announced that she hadn't suffered any damage. But I could see a tiny nick in the front of her hood. I didn't say anything because I knew even a small nick on a Corvette would be expensive. My father also saw the nick and he was more honest than I – he pointed it out to the woman. I wondered if my father would turn in a claim for the damaged car to his insurance or pay it himself.

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