The following story is true:
There were five of us in a car heading for a weekend at the shore—my husband at the time, the couple who owned the shore house, and a friend of theirs. All of us in a late model something, shiny and impressive. It was off-season by months and the roads were fairly deserted. We were all a bit edgy and nervous as we’d run smack into a wall of fog in the Pine Barrens, listened to the cracking of the cars as they plowed into each other, the glass shattering around us. We made it through the fog safely, miraculously, though we heard later that one young man had died.