There was a sort of breach in reality, in the numbness of a walk to the bus on a warm November morning. The car angled at me, forced by another on the other side. Their contact made a dull, plasticky crunch, not the bash of metal you’d expect. It rode up on the curb and past me a few inches away. I yelped. I felt it was my privilege—my duty—to yelp. The outside car, the transgressor, drove on through the roundabout. The inside one drove rapidly around it, cutting it off at the next light. I expected anger, maybe blows. Is that what I wanted? Anger and blows. After a time the cars proceeded to the next stretch of pavement and parked, emergencies on. The driver in front got out. Young guy. The one in back got out. Middle aged mom. She let out her kid and kissed her bye. She let out her dog and held it by the leash. And the two drivers spoke calmly, civilly, exchanging information on their phones.