I've pulled my big red truck over to the side of the road, on 99W just east of Newberg, and I'm talking on the cell phone to Wade's friend Zena. She seems to be implying that she would like to sleep with me, but she explicitly expects to get two things out of the deal: a good meal, and something else that I can't remember. I laugh and tell her ok, let's just go out for dinner and see how it goes.

So I'm driving over to her house, toward Newberg from where I had parked. Somebody else, a male friend, is also with me in the truck. I change lanes and accidentally run a car off the road. We can see it speeding along in a small clear spot just down an embankment from the shoulder. He is lucky, we say, to have survived it.

Then I notice that a motorcyclist was not so lucky. I don't know where he was, but the other car's swerving knocked him completely off the road into a ravine.

I pull the truck over and run out onto a bridge where I can see down into the ravine. A friend of the injured motorcyclist has run down there to make sure he's ok. But he is lucky; he landed on some sort of platform over the river, and escaped without injury.

The friend was really worried, and starts hugging him and crying, as a crowd of onlookers gathers on the bridge. We see them embracing and their tears gather up into an embarrassing blob on one of their faces, like a ball of spit, which they wipe away in gooey trails, with much effort. It feels strange for all these people to be watching in this private, embarrassing moment between the two of them, like they are on TV.