Twenty Minutes That Cost Me Four Hours

The drive from my sister's farm to my house is twenty-two minutes. One county road, two stop signs, no traffic to speak of. I have done it weekly for nine years.

That Sunday I left at 12:10. I remember because she was on the porch complaining that lunch had run late. I started a podcast episode as I pulled out — forty-three minutes long, and that number matters.

The road was emptier than usual, which I noticed without noticing, the way you register weather. No cars at either stop sign. A grey, even light over the fields, no shadows to speak of. The podcast was still on its same episode when I turned into my street — maybe two-thirds through by the feel of the conversation.

My street lights were on. My house windows were dark and my porch light, on its dusk sensor, was burning. The dashboard clock said 4:26. My phone agreed and added seventeen missed messages, the last several from my sister asking whether I had stopped somewhere, then whether I was ghosting her, then whether I was in a ditch.