Everything was fine, and then the unseen rock or midnight BB gun. It sneaks up on you, you know. Year upon year. The things you tolerate, get used to. First there was a little chip, regrettable but part of the experience. This one formed a tiny cross one winter, little cuts of light into the glass. In the spring it started moving, slowly. I’d make a mental note of where it was in relation to something on the dash, and eventually it stretched beyond my reference points. Another year or two, who knows. It goes more than halfway across now.
You know what this is, of course—my brother-in-law doesn’t drive his grandkids down the road behind a sheet of broken glass—but then it’s just an ancient Ford. Judging from the parking lot at Walmart, you could get a correlation going here. It’s kind of like my shirts.