Moths fluttered in my headlights over the long grass of the ditch. I was still clutching the wheel, my heart pounding.

I’d swerved to miss a raccoon in the fog and careened into a shallow embankment on the side of the road. I was okay. Shaken, but okay.

I tried putting the car in reverse, and my tires spun uselessly. Probably mud. Ugh. I should have bought the SUV instead of the sedan.

I turned off the engine, put on the hazards, and called roadside assistance. They told me it’d be an hour wait.

Perfect. Just perfect.

I was still a two-hour drive from home, stuck on some lonely stretch between the funeral home I’d just left in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and my house in Minneapolis. I was starving, I had to use the bathroom, and I was in shapewear. Basically the grand finale to the worst week ever.

I called my best friend, Bri. She answered on the first ring. “So? How was hell week?”

“Well, I can tell you how it ended,” I said, reclining my seat. “I just drove my car into a ditch.”

“Ouch. Are you okay?”

“I am.”

“Did you call a tow truck?”

“I did. An hour wait. And I’m in Spanx.”

She sucked air through her teeth. “Satan’s underwear? You didn’t change before you left? You must have run out of there like you were being chased. Where are you?” she asked.

I peered out the windshield. “I have no idea. Literally the middle of nowhere. I don’t even see streetlamps.”

“Did you mess up your car?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to get out to check. I don’t think so.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “You know what? Hold on. I’m taking these off.”