Coming home from work, I almost got myself killed. As I merged onto the highway, my attention was divided by the realization that I'd left my accelerating car in fourth gear and the mindless twiddling of a toothpick between my lips. Rear- and side-view mirrors were clear, so I started to slide over. Habitually, I threw a casual glance over my shoulder. White mustang. Convertible. I jerked the wheel. Too far.

My Saturn lurched to the right and I was staring at the highway's railing, so I turned back to the left. In that split second, the driver's illusion that the car is an extension of himself was gone. I felt as if I were floating helplessly, trapped inside this machine, and I felt the pressure of its enormous weight behind me, swaying uncontrollably. I could feel the tires pressing into the road, like over-exerted fingertips. The car pitched back and forth. It was easy to imagine it tipping over that invisible threshold and lifting into the air for an awful, silent second before tumbling, rolling, crashing to a halt.

But the wobbling slowed and then stopped. The mustang sped up and got into my lane. Feeling weak, I merged and kept going home. I felt nauseous, probably from one part adrenaline and one part seasickness. I didn't feel relieved.

Somewhere down the road, I remembered the last thing I heard as I left the deli where I eat lunch every day--I remembered overhearing a guy loudly proclaim, "God is in the details."