Frankie had one hand on the wheel, his thumb tapping a rhythm against the leather, a rare, relaxed smile tugging at his mouth as he listened to his eight year old explain the complex social hierarchy of her second grade class.

"I'm just saying, Papi, if I give her my stickers, then she has to-"

CRACK.

The world turned into a violent, metallic kaleidoscope. The impact came from the rear-quarter panel, a bone shaking jolt that sent the minivan spinning toward the curb. The screech of tires on asphalt was drowned out by the terrifying sound of shattering safety glass and the high-pitched, breathless screams of the girls. Frankie’s head snapped sideways, his temple catching the pillar with a sickening thud.

The airbags didn't deploy. They just sat there, useless nylon tucked behind the dash, as the van finally groaned to a halt against a streetlamp.

"Frankie? Frankie!" your voice was sharp with panic, cutting through the ringing in his ears.

Frankie blinked, the world swimming in a hazy, gray fog. A warm, iron scented liquid began to trickle down the side of his face, matting into his eyebrow.

"I'm okay," he croaked, his voice sounding like it was underwater. He didn't look at himself, his eyes immediately darted to the rearview mirror. "Girls?"

The four year old was wailing, a raw, primal sound of pure fear, while the eldest sat frozen, eyes wide, staring at the glass shards on the floor mats.

"They're okay, they're breathing," you gasped, hands shaking as you reached back to fumble for their seatbelts, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Frankie, your head-"

THUD. THUD. THUD.

The driver’s side window rattled under a heavy fist. Frankie flinched, his vision finally snapping into focus. Outside, a man in a pristine white polo was screaming, his face a bright, ugly shade of purple. Behind him, a sleek red sports car sat crumpled against the intersection, its hood folded like a piece of tin foil.

"Get out of the car! You fucking idiot, look what you did!" the man roared, his voice muffled by the glass but vibrating with rage. "You cut me off! You're gonna pay for every goddamn cent of that car!"

Frankie let out a slow, shaky breath. The professional soldier in him, the man who had stared down barrels in the jungle, started to override the dazed father. He put a hand out to steady you. "Stay in the car. Keep them quiet."

"Frankie, don't," you pleaded, grabbing his arm. "Just call 911. Lock the doors and call 911, let the cops handle it!"

Frankie ignored you, clicking his door open. He stumbled slightly as he stepped out, his boots crunching on glass. The heat hit him, making the wound on his head throb in time with his pulse.

"Hey," Frankie said, his voice deceptively low, eerily calm. "Shut your mouth. I had the right of way. You blew the light."

"I blew the light? I'll blow your fucking head off!" the man lunged forward, spit flying from his lips. A woman scrambled out of the sports car’s passenger side, grabbing the man’s arm.

"Jason, stop! Please, there are kids in there! Just let it go, the insurance-"

"Fuck the insurance! Look at my car!" Jason shoved the woman back, turning his fury back on Frankie, who was leaning heavily against the frame of the van, blood now dripping off his chin onto his shirt.

"You got two seconds to back up," Frankie said, and there was a cold, rough edge to his tone that usually only came out when a mission went sideways. "My kids are crying. My wife is scared. You hit us. Back the fuck up."

"Or what? You think you're tough? You're a fucking loser in a minivan," Jason hissed, stepping into Frankie’s personal space, his hand reaching back as if he were going to swing or reach for something in his waistband. "I'll ruin your life! I'll fucking end you right here!"

Inside the van, the girls' screams reached a fever pitch.