Three seconds of hand out the moon roof, resisting the 60 mph highway winds. Three seconds until the approaching car also meets the dead raccoon, and you pass each other in the middle of the night even though it’s the middle of the day. It goes just like you expect it to, except your hand is cold and the song ‘Shattered Dreams’ morphs harshly with some nearby sports/news/whatever-the-fuck-else station. For three seconds you anticipate the grand conjunction — you, the car, the dead raccoon. For three seconds there is nothing else. Then it happens, and then you go home.