Johnson<br > Highway<br > Like much of my life until that sixteenth year， it was a<br > sunny day. A Sunday afternoon. I was in Carol Eckert s<br > house on Pine Street. We were in the living room.<br > Carol was telling me about her new boyfriend， and I， as<br > always， was the good listener.<br > The doorbell rang. It was my younger brother， Bill，<br >panting. "Lucky was hit by a car!"<br > Lucky was our dog.<br > I didn t know what to say except， "Where?"<br > "Johnson Highway."<br > I apologized to Carol and left with Bill. We ran. We<br >ran down Pine to Roberts， down Roberts to Locust， and<br >up Locust toward Johnson Highway. As we came near，<br >I wanted to say to Bill， "You look. I m not stopping." 1<br >wanted to cross Johnson Highway and not look down<br >but run on， run out of town， out of time， out of myself，<br >because I was having a bad year， and it was too few<br >hours ago that I was king.<br >"
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