Riding in a beat-up old junker of a truck bothered Joe’s wife. She thought it unsafe and embarrassing, but he was proud of it. Though the engine grumbled, it had always managed to get them where they were going. And, the rattling didn’t bother him. He told her that it was a classic, and, besides, money was tight.

Before sunrise, Joe loaded the truck’s bed with twelve crates of just-picked apricots and covered them with bedsheets. Direct sunlight would melt the fruit into jam in no time. He turned the key. The fan belt let loose a high-pitched whine of complaint. “Can’t say as I blame you,” Joe said to the truck, patting its dashboard and nodding. “It’s hot already.” The trip to the wholesaler would be a race against time, west from the valley and over the mountain pass. Even at this early hour, the temperature had reached the mid-80s.

Leaving the swirling dust of his farm road behind, he stopped to roll down the windows. They were the manually cranked kind; the type one rarely sees anymore. He preferred taking the county roads rather than the interstate because his slow pickup coughed out an oily blue exhaust. That didn’t earn him the goodwill of those who raced past in their sleek new cars and menacing-looking diesel trucks. Some people cursed as they sped by, without a thought about the apricots they would soon enjoy thanks to him. He was simply an obstacle, undeserving of a place on the road.

Joe watched the heat shimmer off the asphalt as the sun rose in a cloudless sky, thinking this was how mirages are born. The air surging through the open windows provided little relief, though it did remove the stench of some unfortunate creature that had crawled under the truck’s hood, died there, and remained unfound.

The radio had quit working years ago, but he’d rigged up a tape deck and installed it in the glovebox. His music collection was only slightly older than the truck. He liked listening to The Rolling Stones. “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes you’ll find, you get what you need.” He wondered. With age had come reflection and restlessness, and the knowledge that he was running out of time.

As a young man, before taking over his family’s farm, he’d dreamed of living a bohemian life in a city, maybe writing books. He and a school friend had written science fiction stories about interplanetary travel, and to this day he kept a journal, even though his wife teased him about it. “Pouring your heart out in a diary is something young girls do.”

He and Maria had been married for thirty-six years. They continued to go through the motions, but rarely connected with one another, especially since their two daughters had grown and left home. They coexisted—peacefully and respectfully—but without passion. He spent most evenings watching sports on television. She poured her affection into cooking. Making food was a solitary escape she could easily justify, even to herself. Baking reminded her of happier times. For today’s journey, she had given Joe two of her empanadas.

Driving uphill toward the pass required a certain amount of faith. Changes in elevation tested the truck’s engine, transmission, and brakes, while today’s excessive heat taxed its radiator, hoses, and coolant. Once at the summit, he breathed easier, claiming a moment to enjoy the sweeping views of dry grasslands, stands of eucalyptus, and neat orchards that stretched out below, under the turquoise sky. He grabbed one of the empanadas to eat in celebration. Peeling away its wrapper required both hands. He considered pulling onto the shoulder, but his cargo required that he keep moving, so he pressed his knee against the steering wheel. Traffic was light and the air noticeably fresher here. The road angled down. As he swallowed his first bite, a thud and loud metallic clang startled him. Afraid that he might have lost the tailgate and possibly the apricots, he unbuckled his seatbelt and swiveled to look back. Immediately, the clanging grew louder, and the steering wheel began shaking violently. He pounded the brake, but instead of slowing, the pickup skidded sharply to the right. He turned the wheel, but it didn’t respond; the truck swerved off the road, onto the shoulder, and sailed over the edge. For the briefest moment, he felt weightless. The empanada crumbled between his fingers as he braced himself for impact. The truck crashed down on its driver’s side, slamming Joe’s head against the metal frame. Dirt and debris pummeled him through his open window. Flashes of light, like sparklers, ignited behind his tightly closed eyes.

When the sliding stopped, there was an eerie quiet. Joe’s battered body went slack. He tried to assess his situation but couldn’t think clearly. He couldn’t move either; the pain was too great. Before blacking out, he heard people yelling to him from above.

Hours, days, even weeks might have passed; he had no idea. Unable to distinguish between dreams and reality, he accepted without question the parade of people who appeared before him. His father, who had passed away years earlier, told Joe he was proud of him, and grateful that he had continued working the family farm. “It’s an honest living,” his father said. “Growing food is a contribution to the greater good.”

The childhood friend he’d written stories with came by, too. Joe told Manny how much he admired him for moving to Chicago and living the life of a writer. But Manny said that he’d been unprepared for the constant rejections and sacrifices demanded of writers. That he’d become disillusioned with the disappointments and financial distress and wound up taking a job at an advertising agency, proofreading ad copy, and composing jingles for automobile dealerships and grocery store chains. He told Joe that he’d saved the stories they had written together as boys and would read them whenever he felt low. They made him laugh, and also smile.

Andrea, his high school sweetheart, made an appearance looking as pretty as she had all those years ago. Joe told her he’d continued to pine for her even after marrying Maria, and more so lately. She laughed dismissively. “You’re so lucky we broke up. I would have made you miserable. I made all of my husbands miserable. I was never satisfied with what I had. I was always sure there was more or better.”

Joe knew he was awake when a nurse told him he’d been in the hospital for several days. He had broken three vertebrae in his neck and fractured his skull. She reassured him that he had no paralysis but had been fitted with a structure to prevent him from moving his head, neck, and shoulders. He was trying to envision what such an armature might look like when she held up a mirror. Frankenstein’s monster! Metal rods had been bolted into his head and attached to a ring-like collar surrounding him.

“It’s called a halo,” she said calmly as his focus began to dissolve. Considering the dreams he was having about Andrea and several other women, he thought being fitted with a halo more than slightly ironic. “You’ll wear it for a few months while you heal, then it will come off, and you’ll be better,” the nurse told him. “Once it’s removed, you’ll never even know it’s been there.”

Horrified by his reflection, and yet somehow relieved as consciousness dissolved, he attributed the odd mix of sensations to the pain medication pumped into his arm. Sometime later, awareness returned when someone squeezed his hand. He opened his eyes. “Joe?” It was Maria. He tried to nod but the halo prevented him from moving his head. He grunted. Tears spilled. She leaned forward, radiant, and kissed the air an inch away from his injured and bolted forehead. “I’m here,” she whispered, her voice comforting. “For better or worse. In sickness or in health. Whatever you need.”