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From WikiStory

          The first time I put my hands on the steering wheel, since my sister had died, I felt a rush. Not of excitement, but of awe and terror. Never had I felt so small and the car so huge. The incessant rhythmic percussion of summer crickets and the swish of the oak leaves were swallowed instantly by the growl of the motor as my key turned in the slot. The old red station wagon made it clear to me that I was not in charge. The car surged forward noisily, rattling as always, leading me slowly down the sleepy road, sand and dust rising in my wake.

          I had to talk to myself, remind myself, that this was not how it happened to Molly. She had been rushing on 495, a four-lane highway. In the dark. In the rain. This was completely different.

          Still, I stopped the car. Had to breathe for a minute. A buzz saw whirred and crescendoed toward me, but then it was just a fat bee spiraling into the silent windshield and darting off again. I flipped down the visor against the glare of the dropping sun.