It was a sad stroke of fate as Joe released his pressure on the gas pedal. The scared squirrel laid dying on the pavement, a redundant view on this country road. He didn’t see the creature, was going too fast because he was late—he was always late, and now he would be more so. His contribution to the annual family dinner was pies, the awesome concoctions made by his neighbor at the “Purely Pies” bakery she owned.
As he entered the family home he would settle in for the complete fit they would throw at him being late again. He expected them to complain as they did every year at Thanksgiving.