When you leave Marfa, it’s a deep dive into the rural framework of Texas. Back to the grasses and the yucca. The uninterrupted sky. A whole lot of space to fill. And what a sky it was! It had been so fickle, now finally we saw glimmers of bright blue patches above the long dark ribbon of a road ahead. Look at that road! With nothing on it!

“This would be a good time to stand in the middle of the road,” Beth said. And she was the family therapist. The reasonable one! It was a spur of the moment suggestion. No reasoning behind it. We might be getting older, but in Texas, in the desert, you can still pull over, jump in the middle of the road and not a soul will know about it.

We hopped out of the car and screamed our heads off, drunk with all of the space. And it was exhilarating! When my kids were little, I told them not to run into the street about 100 times. (Maybe more?) Here we were, four women in our mid-40s. It went against all of our instincts as responsible adults, and we let those instincts go into the wind that night.

The sun was quickly dropping into the desert so, after our “I’m the queen of the road” stunt, we got back in the S.U.V. and I revved up to 80 again. In my path were two large black crows, snacking on roadkill. I slowed down a bit so they’d have time to ascend, but one got caught by the wind and it swooped down with a sharp force. My car plunged into it, everyone screamed and the bird propelled into my windshield. I did what any sane person would do when something large is coming at you: I ducked, yet my hands remained steady on the wheel.

For whatever reason — maybe it was the desolate road, maybe it was how fast I was driving, or my desert head space — but my instinct was to simply duck, not to swerve. I’m a good driver. I can take a highway or a city street. But this was not a normal reflex. I’m telling you, I didn’t move that wheel. I’m going to chalk it up to adrenaline. Something raced inside of me that said “Get your head down. Now.”