Adam Moorad

The boy leaks oil on the road. Sandwich in hand, oozing wet deli paper towards the elbow. His Mustang mounts a Subaru, neighs, champs its sharp teeth, and snorts. His muffler ejects a wet slug of tar. It falls from the spout onto the asphalt and softens in the afternoon heat. The boy closes his eyes and balls his hands. He sneezes. He can already feel his forehead bouncing backwards off the dash.