Tom's dad was 6'4" and not much interested in the teenaged boys in the backseat of his heavy-duty Dodge Ram pickup after a long weekend of mandatory joint-custody camping. He was an army type, best to be seen and not heard with. We were bound for home, about an hour from the 400. He didn't like music and no monkey business, ever. It made sense just to doze off so when it happened, I figured I was dreaming. A deer was on the road ahead about 400 metres. I saw it look at us, paralyzed, like what they mean by "deer in the headlights." We craned our necks forward to look at his dad whose expression remained unchanging, and not the slightest movement of his foot from the gas pedal. I grabbed my shoulder strap and clenched my eyes and teeth when we hit it. There was a sickening double thud but none of us looked back. Silence. For several kilometres which seemed like miles, nothing but silence. Mercifully, he must have had to pee too so we pulled over at one of those moccasin slash diner places and headed for the restrooms. At the table we ordered, waited. No one spoke. Tom tapped his glass slowly and his dad's teeth clinked when they hit his fork. I stared at my Mac and Cheese and waited to leave. More silence except for the paying the bill. Then Tom snapped.
"What the hell were you thinking!" Mr. Samborsky raised his hands to his face.
"Jesus Christ, I thought it would move! Didn't you?"