I'm with my father and my stepmother. They recently moved to the area, and I could not be happier. They had lived far away in Oregon for all of my life, so it was lovely to spend so much time with them. We're walking on the sidewalk, traveling down Wheaton Way. I'm tired because it's early out, and I'm sore because of exercises the day before. I'm not holding either's hand, something I do most of the time, and I regret not bringing my inhaler because the air smells like car exhaust and smog. We approach a drive-thru exit, something I dislike. I hate cars, and I'm afraid of them. My father goes first, and instead of holding his hand and staying close, I wait a moment and go after him. I make eye contact with the driver, but he starts to drive anyways. As I make contact with the car, every fiber of my body tenses. My stepmother screams and grabs my arm, and I'm pulled before the car can shoot me onto on-coming traffic. I break into sobbing, knowing I very well could of died. My stepmother screams at the man driving, who clearly doesn't know much English. My dad is threatening to kill the man. He drives away and my father runs to me and hugs me, asking what happened. He explains he didn't know the car hit me, he thought it almost did, and if he had known he would of probably went to jail because of the things he would do. I asked to walk home, and we walked home with a sort of optimism I'm good at conjuring when things get bad. I still don't like cars.