The Moose

The young Bull Moose sat in the passenger seat of the Chevy with his head stuck through the cratered windshield. Stunned, he stared out ahead at the warped red hood and an enormous oak tree. Beyond that was darkness.

His front legs were pressed underneath the dashboard, one crossed behind the other, like a giant brown clown in a polka-dotted Volkswagen. He sat on throbbing hind legs, squirming slightly for a moment, but for the pain he was unable to resituate. The left rear leg was badly broken and the left haunch stung from a deep laceration where he had broken through the glass. It was quiet. He did not move.

Bridget slouched with her head pressed between the driver’s side window and seat. She breathed shallowly, slowly. She was still unconscious. The seatbelt cut across her neck, and shards of broken glass lay on her lap and the dash, twinkled in moonlight. The glass caved delicately over her face, a threatening chandelier. Her legs were shriveled up against the seat, a mess of broken bone. The cold November breeze stirred at her temples, lifted faintly at her blouse. She was still rosy with the flush of adrenaline that had flared in the fraction before she hit. It was quiet, except for the wind gently shaking the glass to a tinkling chime. She did not move.