They Called Driving Slow "No Big Deal." They Died.

They Called Driving Tired "No Big Deal." They Never Woke Up. He'd made the drive a dozen times before, always on fumes, always fine. Five hours of sleep, a gas station coffee, and the confidence that came from having done it and survived it, again and again. Tonight was no different — or so he told himself, easing onto the highway just after midnight, the desert stretching out flat and empty and familiar under his headlights. Fatigue felt like nothing new. Just a little heaviness behind the eyes, a little static in his thoughts. He'd pushed through worse. Somewhere past the last exit, the white line blurred, his hands relaxed on the wheel, and his eyes closed for a moment that felt like nothing at all. The car didn't wake him up in time. Nothing did.