Wires under the dashboard caught on fire. We were going down a street not a highway. My father was driving. My sister and I were in the back. My mother opened her door. My father was yelling “Jump!” so I jumped. My mother grabbed my hands. I was dragged along until the car stopped. “Are you hurt?” someone said. We were in a gas station. They sold packets of antiseptic. They burned my scraped knees with them. The scabs that formed made it difficult for me to keep my legs straight when I walked. At school I wore a skirt. It took a couple of days to heal. It must have taken longer. It was bright in the gas station. I don’t know what happened to the car. I don’t know who put the fire out. It wasn’t the kind of fire that destroys a car. I don’t know if there was really a vending machine that dispensed antiseptic but I like the idea of it. It would be wall-mounted, and you’d put in your coins, and twist the chunky metal handle. Instead of a toy or candy medicine would come out.
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