Mile marker 118

I'm headed east on I-4 today when the car behind me loses control. I'm watching the entire thing unfold in my rearview mirror going 75 mph.

"OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod," I say. It's the same thing I said before my own accident.

But instead of tipping and rolling as it threatened to do, the metallic blue Accent runs off the road. An illogical part of me is waiting for the driver to flick on his turning signal and roll gently to a stop.

He hits the guardrail on the driver's side first, spinning in two dramatic 360s, metal slamming, clunking, flying, before coming to rest, front end on the guardrail, back end in the fast lane.

Cars behind him slow and go around the unfolding high-speed accident. I too slow automatically up ahead, wanting to stop, having been there, knowing it's too dangerous to stop on the narrow shoulder half a mile away, I shouldn't, not in my sick state—feeling guilty for not.

I glance up to note the mile marker and end my phone call. I dial 9-1-1. The reporter's instinct kicks in. 3:39 p.m.

"Hi," I declare, my voice warbly. "I'm headed east on I-4 and I just watched an accident happen just west of mile marker 118. It was a one-vehicle accident."

"Ma'am, are you on the scene?"

"No. It happened behind me, so I couldn't stop."

"Was it a rollover? Do you know if there were any injuries?"

"It wasn't a rollover and there was no ejection, but I couldn't tell if there were any injuries."

"And you said it was a one-vehicle accident?"

"Well I hope it still is. The back end of the car was obstructing the left lane."

"And you're eastbound, but it's west of mile marker 118?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the make and model of the car?"

"I think it was a light blue Hyundai Accent." I'm grateful for my car fetish just then.

"Can we have a name and number in case we need to call you back?"

So I give her.

"Help will be there in a few minutes."

My heart's still in my throat, my fingers are still tingling when I hang up.

I want to make an illegal U-turn and head back that way again. I want to make sure the person's OK, I want to hold his hand. I'm scared to put myself in danger, scared to deal with the trauma when I still haven't fully gotten over my own more than two years later.

I keep driving. I keep telling myself I did the right thing. I called 9-1-1. I gave them the clearest information I could. I swallowed the panic and kept my head on. A big part of me knows I will never forgive myself for not stopping, that I will check the outcome during tomorrow's Cops Shift if it doesn't make the news tonight.

On the way home I see the troopers headed west. I can only hope the person inside is OK. But I also know that if he made it out alive, his journey is just beginning.