We take the corner tight, the passenger's seat glued to the short lip of asphalt on the side of the unmarked lane. The wall of shrubs and ivy block our view of the field beyond and, more importantly, the road ahead.
The car strains to accelerate in the wrong gear. Rounding the corner, sounds of relief escape us for a brief moment as the road straightens out. But then, from its own little blind corner behind the fields of green, it appears: a hatchbacked silver bullet barreling toward us on the narrow road.
Gasps are heard in the back seat. The co-pilot, buried under a pile of maps, makes an effort to speak (or perhaps just prays). Spacial sensitivity peaks.
The bullet charges on. Nothing else to be done: the brakes slam their eyes shut, unable to watch; the left-side tires cross themselves and leap off the asphalt ledge; gravel splashes and spits on impact. We, too, brace ourselves until the moment just before The End… as the tiny hatchback passes in the opposite lane without incident. We crawl along in anti-climax.
"What the HELL was THAT?!"
I am driving a rented Toyota Yaris around the country roads of County Dublin, Ireland, with my most beloved family members…and we are all about to die.
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