The Chevy flipped over twice, enveloped in a halo of shattered glass and paint chips. It came to rest on its roof on the hard packed desert twenty yards from the road. I smelled gas and burnt oil.
I stood on the road, waiting.
The wreck shifted. The driver’s side door protested and then was kicked open and away. Butch rolled out onto his knees. His clothes were ripped. Fresh cuts covered his arms and torso. His face looked no uglier.