The Gawker

Drew Harwell: A 19-year-old lay on a stretcher in the weeds of a shut-down gas station, his blood dotting the curb.

His orange Isuzu Amigo, freshly crumpled on East Bay Drive, sat nearby. Firefighters knelt at the teen's side, checking his pulse. His friends shaded their eyes and shared hushed worries. Passing drivers slowed to watch, then sped away.

Paramedics would come soon to take the teen away, but someone had beaten them to the scene. She wore gray sweatpants, a saggy T-shirt and a locket of her late dog's ashes. Her name is Sallie Gibson.

Sallie approached with hunched, unsteady steps. Her chihuahua, Little Bear, panted quietly in her arms. Sallie ground her teeth. She stared.

What did it feel like, she wondered, to crash? Did the teen feel shocked? Was he scared? How do people in car crashes, with all that pain, lie so still?

To herself, she said a prayer.