In the summer of 1996 I was living at home in North Carolina with my dad. One Friday toward the end of the summer, my then boyfriend caught a ride to see me, and when the weekend was over, I drove him the two hours back to his college in my little green Ford Festiva.
Before we left, I mentioned the trip to several friends, and each and every one cautioned, "Don't fall asleep at the wheel." I waved away their concern and set off to make this quick trip. We began the drive at ten o'clock at night, and I had to be at work at eight the next morning, which meant I had to turn around and drive back pretty much right away.
The trip to the college was nothing out of the ordinary, and we were there before we knew it. I left to return home around two a.m. Within the first half hour I was feeling drowsy, so I pulled off the road for a catnap before setting off again. Back on the highway, I had the radio turned up and opened the window a bit to let in fresh air, and I felt I was doing fine. Then, along a very deserted stretch of road, I fell asleep and was suddenly awakened by the sound of gravel under my tires.
