In the Second Before

Rain hit the windshield like shrapnel. Colin leaned forward, squinting past the wipers as they scraped back and forth, useless against the downpour. The highway stretched ahead, blurry and gray, headlights from oncoming traffic flaring like exploding stars.

He shouldn't have taken the late shift. He knew that. But Barbara had her recital in the morning, and she’d asked — begged — him to be there. So he’d worked the graveyard shift at the hospital and left the moment his replacement clocked in.

Two hours to go. Just two more hours and he'd be home. He pictured Barbara in her little blue dress, hair tied back in a ribbon, standing on a stage with too-big shoes and too much confidence for a six-year-old. The thought made him smile, if only for a second.

The radio crackled — static. He turned the volume down. His phone buzzed in the cupholder.

BARBARA- Daddy are you on your way? BARBARA- Mommy says I should go to bed. But I want to wait.

Colin smiled again, tired but warm. He reached over, thumbs already hovering to reply.

Then everything slowed.

A flash of movement to his right. Headlights. Too close.

A car, black, hydroplaning out of control, fishtailing sideways into his lane.

In that instant — less than a second — Colin had to decide.

Swerve left into oncoming traffic? Swerve right and risk the ditch, maybe a rollover? Or hit the brakes and hope to God the other car misses?

One.

He swerved left.

The oncoming truck hit him head-on.

Time, after that, became a list of sounds- twisting metal, shattering glass, screaming tires, and somewhere inside all of it, his own voice calling out Barbara's name.

When he woke up, two days later, they told him he’d been lucky.

The truck driver hadn’t.

He couldn’t move his legs.

His wife cried when she saw him. Barbara didn’t. She sat quietly at the foot of the hospital bed, drawing flowers on a napkin.

He watched her, blinking through the haze of pain and morphine. She looked up once and smiled.

“Daddy,” she said. “I told my teacher you’d be there. And you tried.”

The words gutted him. All he could do was nod.

Two.

He swerved right.

The wheels lifted.

For a moment, the world turned sideways.

Then the car flipped.

His head hit the ceiling. The window exploded. Cold rain sliced in. Then blackness.

He came to in the upside-down wreck of his Honda. Smoke curled from the hood. Blood ran into his eye. His phone was ringing, somewhere just out of reach.

He kicked the door, coughed, and screamed. No sound came out.

Then he saw the girl.

Not Barbara. Someone else’s daughter. Maybe five. In the car that hit him. The driver’s side crushed in. Her car seat tilted at an angle. She was crying.

Colin moved without thinking. Crawled out of his own wreck, dragging one leg behind him. The world tilted. Sirens, far off.

He reached the other car, smashed the window with a piece of his own bumper. The door wouldn’t budge. He climbed through.

The girl was alive. The driver wasn't.

He unbuckled her, carried her to the grass, and collapsed beside her.

The EMTs found them like that. The little girl holding his hand. Him whispering something over and over.

“Barbara. Barbara. Barbara.”

He didn’t make it to the recital. He never walked right again. But every Christmas after that, he got a card.

Thank you for saving our daughter. You were her angel that night.

Three.

He hit the brakes.

Time stuttered, then resumed.

The black car slid past, missing him by inches. It spun twice and slammed into the guardrail with a shriek.

Colin hands were locked on the wheel, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. He didn’t move.

After a second, he forced himself to breathe.

The other car sat motionless, steam rising from the hood. Someone inside was moving. Alive, at least.

He didn’t stop. He couldn't. Not with Barbara waiting. Not after working three doubles in a row just to be there.

Sirens would come. Someone else would help.

He kept driving.

He got home just before dawn. Barbara was still in her dress, asleep on the couch, crayon clutched in her hand.

Colin knelt beside her. Touched her cheek.

She stirred. Opened her eyes. Smiled.

“You made it,” she whispered.

He nodded.

“I told you I would.”

Later that day, he watched her dance. Her foot slipped once, but she laughed and kept going. From the back row, Colin stood and clapped louder than anyone else.

But that night, when the news reported a hit-and-run on Highway 17 — single car crash, driver critical — he didn’t sleep.

He kept seeing those headlights.

That second.

The one second where everything could’ve changed.

Four.

There was no decision.

The black car hit him before he could react.

It slammed into his passenger side, spinning him into the median. His airbag exploded. The engine hissed and died.

He came to with glass in his hair and a taste of blood in his mouth.

Someone was shouting. A woman. Sirens in the distance.

He blinked. Tried to sit up. Pain exploded through his side.

“Stay down,” someone said. “You’re hurt.”

He looked up. A nurse, maybe. She had gloves on, blood on her sleeve.

He tried to speak. Couldn’t.

Later, in the ER, he found out the other driver was drunk. Lost control on the curve. She didn’t make it.

Neither did his spleen. Three surgeries, four broken ribs, one punctured lung.

He spent Barbara's recital in a hospital bed, watching the video his wife sent him. Barbara waved at the camera.

“Hi Daddy! I’m dancing now!”

He cried quietly, grateful to be alive.

Five.

He made the wrong decision.

He froze.

No swerve. No brake. Just wide eyes and locked hands.

The black car hit him. Not hard — just enough to nudge him sideways.

He skidded off the road. Into the ditch.

The airbag didn’t deploy. The car stalled.

His head bounced off the window. Dazed, he sat there, rain pouring in through the broken glass.

The black car kept going. Never stopped.

His phone buzzed.

BARBARA- Daddy? Are you okay?

He stared at the message, then typed-

I’m okay. Be home soon.

He wasn’t.

Took two hours for a tow truck. Another hour for a ride.

He missed the recital. Got home to a sleeping house and cold coffee on the table.

Barbara's drawing sat next to it- a stick figure with a blue dress and a big, red heart.

He taped it to the fridge and didn’t sleep.

One second.

That’s all it ever takes.

To swerve left and hit a truck. To swerve right and save a child. To hit the brakes and live with what you didn’t do. To freeze and miss what matters. To act — and pay for it.

But in one version, just one, he makes it home.

He holds his daughter. He watches her dance. And in that version, he tells her-

“I’ll always try to be there. Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s raining. Even if it’s only for a second.”

She doesn’t understand what that means.

Not yet.

But one day, she will.

When she’s the one driving in the rain.