Shards of glass crunched between the weight of his shoulders and the ceiling of the car as he struggled to turn himself just far enough to slide out of the passenger window. There was nothing left of the driver side seat, that is, other than the bits of a mangled body protruding from between the crumpled roof, dash and floorboard. A bloody grimace had replaced his sunshine smile and a gnarly gash had made itself at home where his left eye had once inhabited.
The shriek of sirens made its way over the hill and around Dead Man's curve.
Now lying on the ground beside the car, the sirens and voices faded in and out of his eardrums:
"--- deceased!"
"--- ain't no savin---!"
"Hold on! --- on the ground!"
"Git that---!"
"Holy shit he's---!"
"Hold on, son! We fixin'a gi---!"
"Git that goddamn EMT down here now, Brett!"
The eye that was still left in his head rolled back and he plummeted into unconsciousness.

"Emilia? Where's Emilia?" he groaned.
His voice was gritty. His tongue felt like sandpaper against his teeth.
"Get the doc, Mary! He's conscious!" a deep voice boomed from the left, a blind spot in his vision.
Not knowing there was no eye there to open, he tried to lift his hands in an attempt to pry it open, but they were glued to his sides, so weak that all he could manage was to lift the tip of his pinky. A familiar warm feeling filled his fingertips.
"Don? Can you hear me, son?"
Pops. That warm familiar feeling was his grandfather's hands surrounding his own, a feeling that had brought comfort to him many times in his life.
"Donovan..."...