Maps

He sold maps. When you'd pull in at a rest stop, go to the gas station, and see a collection of maps, he was the man who brought them there. He knew where he was going.

Nobody knew quite what happened. Bystanders said he suffered a massive heart attack and his car veered into the path of an oncoming semi. A series of instants and it was over. Although how a bystander could witness a heart attack from outside a moving car is anyone's guess.

His wife wasn't notified. It happened on a Monday, and she was called Friday. She and their daughter called everyone they knew, anyone they could think of, to try and find out what happened. Where was he? Where was he going? What was keeping him? Was he safe? Was he lost? They asked that last question not in seriousness, but because they had to ask something.

It was open and shut; heart attack, semi. Bystanders said the trunk flew open on impact, sending a hundred thousand maps scattering against the wind. Nothing caught fire, nothing was completely destroyed. But still it took five days to notify his family. And she would always wonder why, wonder what happened during those days. What she wasn't told, what someone was hiding. She would always hope that it was something. Because in those five days it could make sense.