When I decided to file the lawsuit, I convinced myself that I was only doing what any reasonable person would do in my position, because that belief made it easier to sleep at night and easier to ignore the quiet discomfort that settled in my chest whenever I thought about the man on the motorcycle.
The collision happened on a mild Tuesday afternoon in early April, in a suburban town outside Columbus where traffic flowed slowly and most people assumed nothing truly terrible could happen on an ordinary street. I was stopped at a red light on Fairview Boulevard, waiting for the signal to change, when I felt a sudden impact from behind that pushed my car forward just enough to make my seat belt lock against my chest.
I stepped out of the car with shaking hands, more startled than injured, and saw a man already standing beside a motorcycle that had tipped slightly to one side. He moved carefully, as if his body were older than his face suggested, and he pulled off his helmet with deliberate slowness.
“I am terribly sorry,” he said before I had time to speak, his voice tight with panic and regret. “I misjudged the distance. Are you hurt?”