Abby sings “Hakuna Matata.” Something darts from the underbrush. Should I swerve? I hold my breath. Indecision thrusts the vehicle forward. On its haunches, it turns to me. The steering wheel wiggles against a small bump. “Thudathump” echoes from beneath. In the rearview, the small, furry grey squirrel lays in the road – tail raised stiffly in surrender.
“Did you kill him, Daddy?” Abby asks from the rear as our eyes meet in the mirror.