“I-70. Coming back from Indianapolis. Three years ago, in November.”

My hand went cold.

Because three years ago in November, I had been in an accident on I-70.

Not fatal. Not even close. A semi had jackknifed two exits ahead of me during freezing rain. Traffic stopped suddenly, and a pickup clipped my rear bumper hard enough to spin me into the shoulder.

I walked away with a bruised rib and a cracked taillight.

Claire had cried when I called her.

At least, I thought she had.