On her commute (I-40: 62.5 miles west, 61.3 miles east) she practiced disaster. She focused on overpasses from which her car could spill like ink in blotchy slow motion towards Old Interstate 40 below. She planned ways that, perhaps, she could survive a dive into the lake she crossed just a few miles from home. Sometimes she hoped for a drunk driver to plow her into a ditch: a semi-soft, rain loosened shelf where her car could rest, where she’d wait for the police and EMS. She pictured: a broken leg, a short period in a wheelchair, a quick settlement that let her live without working; without commuting for a least a year while she found a job with insurance so she’d be ready again for disaster.