I tried to ignore it. Window cracks were common, after all, and I drove on through the gray morning murk as traffic accumulated and Joe remained silent in the passenger's seat, intently studying his smartphone.
We stopped at an intersection with a large shopping center on the left and a cluster of fast-food places on the right. I reached over the steering wheel as the car idled and dragged a curious thumbnail over the crack, awaiting the snag. But the glass remained smooth and cold to the touch; my fingers told me there was no crack, my eyes said otherwise. The windshield wipers made a squeaky pass and I jumped in my seat. I looked sheepishly over at Joe. He refused to look at me.
The light changed and I followed a dirty quarter-ton pickup through town until it turned off, onto some unnamed road.
I noticed the groundskeeping in these neighborhoods had already been cleared of the perennial winter debris, and though it was late in the season and the tulips would soon be popping to welcome the onset of spring with their multitude of jocund colors, it nonetheless felt like snow. I turned up the defroster and reached my hand over the dash to make sure it was blowing warm air.