He was not much of a driver. He saw himself as a slow pace traveler. Small winding roads in the countryside were his thing. The car felt more like a boat, and he was a sailor. The grandpa's convertible was still in good shape.
One thing he never learned was to overtake other cars. He mastered the art of adjusting. Any speed was good. And his car understood.
He avoided the highway. Never drove on it. Too dangerous for the two of them. Never forget to turn right, and all will be fine.
The traffic was dense that day. Car after car after car. The policeman at the turn. He was pointing at the convertible that was trying to turn right and to the highway exit. The river of cars was taking him away from safety.
He was speeding as the cars pushed from the back. And there he was on the interstate. Not for long. Sixty years after inheriting the vehicle, he had his first accident. Also his last one.
A little shell dropped onto a crumpled bonnet. Acres of almond trees lined the interstate highway, which complimented the crazy driving nuts.