A series of events
I almost died today. My life did not flash before my eyes. I barely even appreciated what happened.

This morning just after I pulled out of the driveway of my building, a small series of events occurred.

A woman pulled her car in front of my car. A taxi driver in front of her suddenly slammed on his brakes, screeching to a halt. The woman in turn slammed on her brakes, also screeching to a halt. I slammed on my brakes, screeching to a crunch.

The woman pulled over, and so did I. It wasn't so bad.

"Great bumper!" she exclaimed, taking off her sunglasses and hopping from one foot to the other. The sun was gleaming white, but the temperature had still not risen much above the -35 degrees of the night before.

"I didn't mean to stop so quickly," she said. "It was that taxi."

The last time I'd been involved in an accident with another vehicle was when an old lady dropped her purse under her brake pedal and scratched the side of my car as I drove past her driveway. We'd called the police and filed a report. This woman didn't seem interested in that.

I asked if she wanted to exchange insurance information.

"My car's not damaged, and it's not like it's my fault," she said.

"Well, let me at least get your phone number," I said. I added her as a contact in my cell phone then gave her phone a call.

With that, she took off.

I had been on my way to an interview at a hospital. I was going to talk to a 22-year-old girl with MS.

There were two paths: Keep driving and try to get to the interview on time or take the car back to my building, park, take the el to the downtown newsroom and do the interview over the phone from there.

My car didn't look all that bad. It was a little crunched, but everything still worked just fine. I chose to drive.

An hour later, I was going down the highway when I noticed my hood bouncing in the Chicago wind. I had another choice to make: Keep driving until the next exit then get off, do the interview by phone and call AAA or pull over to the side of the highway right then and call AAA.

With so many huge trucks whipping by, I didn't feel safe perching on the side of the road. I decided to drive to the next exit.

I pulled over to the right lane and slowed down, willing the hood to stay shut. I imagined the worst that could happen would be for it to flip open halfway, momentarily obstructing my vision.

But then all at once the hood shot completely upright, wrenching metal, slamming full on into my windshield and clinging there like a giant bug.

For a moment I kept driving forward, amazed to discover in the new darkness that I could still go straight. But I realized I could see the line on the side of the road in the two-inch unblocked space at the bottom of my windshield. I used it as my reference to pull over into the margin.

I turned on my hazard lights and called AAA. I sat waiting on hold, listening to classical music for a good five minutes before the phone rang and then disconnected me. At that, exactly four frustrated tears rolled down my cheeks, but then I pulled myself together and dialed again.

By the time I'd gotten an answer, a man in an orange jumpsuit with "Tollway" stitched onto the place where a breast pocket might have been had pulled up behind me in a yellow truck. He told me he'd get me some wire to tie my hood shut so I wouldn't have to get towed.

It was about time for me to do my interview, so I called and conducted it over the phone, writing with my notebook propped on my steering wheel. At one point I had to put the girl on hold to speak to a police officer who came to check out the scene.

Another man arrived to secure my hood. I thanked him, watching him tie metallic knots and jumping from one foot to the other.

I drove on to meet my interview subject. I had gone all this way; I needed to get my photo of her for the article.

I took pictures of her pretending to do her job, making coffee and sandwiches in a cafe. Then I sat in a public library, edited the photos, finished my article and sent it all in to the newsroom.

I had gotten my car all the way back to the body shop before I even called anyone to tell them what happened.

The guys at the auto shop were surprised there was no damage to my windshield. The thought that it could have easily shattered, flinging glass and frigid wind over me and probably causing me to crash into the divider by the entrance ramp or the truck on any side of me -- the thought had crossed my mind, but only for a second. The important thing was that it didn't happen. The time for that scenario to play out had passed.

When I called and told the insurance agency about the incident on the highway, the woman on the phone said with glee, "Oh, that's a separate incident. So there will be two."

"What? The second incident didn't even damage anything new. It just messed up the hood, which already was going to need to be replaced."

"Well I'll make a note of that," she said demurely. I'm sure she'd love to charge the deductible twice.

Everyone else who called asked if I was okay.

My professor called. She had already arranged for someone to drive me to our field trip the next day. And she had an offer for me.

A Web site and the medical school wanted a Medill student to cover a conference for them. I'd be there all day and write three articles for three different entities, all freelance. I'd be hanging around some top scientists and writing for a wide audience.

Because it's a freelance gig, they can pay me.

The woman offering the job asked my professor what she thought I should get.

"I kept my mouth shut," Abigail said. "I asked her, 'What were you thinking?'"

The woman stated her price: the exact cost of my deductible.