13: Number of days I’d owned my brand new Hyundai Elantra GT Hatchback, which, if it was dark out, and sleeting, and you squinted, almost looked like a Saab. I’d wanted a Saab ever since I was a teenager, maybe because they looked European to me, exotic, a far cry from the sedans parked haphazardly at the strip malls in Newark, Delaware. 

96: Brightness count of the paper I was planning to purchase at Staples that day in order to print out some of my writing, mostly short stories about hopeful young women sticking by damaged young men who drank too much.

3: Number of paper clip packs I also intended to treat myself to, possibly in fun colors, to organize these earnest tales about acceptance and rehabilitation with lots of forgiveness thrown in.

4: Number of times the person’s fingers beckoned for me to turn left in front of her. This woman was leaving me space into the parking lot entrance, inviting me across her path.

2: Number of times I flapped my own fingers in a wave to thank her while turning left in front of her toward my office supplies.

0.5: Number of seconds I looked in the eyes of the dude barreling up the shoulder on the other side of her before he crashed into me with a bang and spun my little Elantra around like a top, the hood immediately crumpling like a piece of tin foil. 

Several: Number of people who informed me that day and in the following days that the driver turning left is always at fault no matter what, just as the driver who rear-ends another car is always at fault, no matter what. Ric, my mechanic, whose shop was down the street from my apartment, confirmed this with regret.

4: Number of times I asked the cop if the part of the road where the other driver was driving was a real lane, hoping that if it wasn’t (it wasn’t) this would render the other driver responsible for our accident.

0: Number of times the policeman answered this question directly.

6: Number of days I walked on crutches, due to an unlikely ankle sprain incurred while braking and bracing myself.

7: Number of weeks it took to get my brand-new car back from the auto body shop after its reconstructive surgery. It looked exactly the same, but it had been through things. It suddenly had a past and secrets. We’d gone through something together.

10: Number of years I stuck with that car, which wasn’t a Saab, but close enough.