The Longest Ride - Nicholas Sparks Page 0,1

greatly weakened the right side of his body. Even then, he insisted on taking care of himself. He refused to move to a nursing home, even though he had to use a walker to get around, and he continued to drive despite my pleas that he forfeit his license. It’s dangerous, I would tell him, to which he would shrug.

What can I do? he would answer. How else would I get to the store?

My father finally died a month before he turned 101, his license still in his wallet and a completed crossword puzzle on the bed-stand beside him. It had been a long life, an interesting life, and I’ve found myself thinking about him often of late. It makes sense, I suppose, because I’ve been following in his footsteps all along. I carried with me his Rules for Life every morning as I opened the shop and in the way I’ve dealt with people. I remembered names and gave more than was expected, and to this day I take my hat with me when I think there’s a chance of rain. Like my father, I had a heart attack and now use a walker, and though I never liked crossword puzzles, my mind seems as sharp as ever. And, like my father, I was too stubborn to give up my license. In retrospect, this was probably a mistake. If I had, I wouldn’t be in this predicament: my car off the highway and halfway down the steep embankment, the hood crumpled from impact with a tree. And I wouldn’t be fantasizing about someone coming by with a thermos full of coffee and a blanket and one of those movable thrones that carried the pharaoh from one spot to the next. Because as far as I can tell, that’s just about the only way I’m ever going to make it out of here alive.

I’m in trouble. Beyond the cracked windshield, the snow continues to fall, blurry and disorienting. My head is bleeding, and dizziness comes in waves; I’m almost certain my right arm is broken. Collarbone, too. My shoulder throbs, and the slightest twitch is agonizing. Despite my jacket, I’m already so cold that I’m shivering.

I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t afraid. I don’t want to die, and thanks to my parents – my mother lived to ninety-six – I long assumed that I was genetically capable of growing even older than I already am. Until a few months ago, I fully believed I had half a dozen good years left. Well, maybe not good years. That’s not the way it works at my age. I’ve been disintegrating for a while now – heart, joints, kidneys, bits and pieces of my body beginning to give up the ghost – but recently something else has been added to the mix. Growths in my lungs, the doctor said. Tumors. Cancer. My time is measured in months now, not years… but even so, I’m not ready to die just yet. Not today. There is something I have to do, something I have done every year since 1956. A grand tradition is coming to an end, and more than anything, I wanted one last chance to say good-bye.

Still, it’s funny what a man thinks about when he believes death to be imminent. One thing I know for sure is that if my time is up, I’d rather not go out this way – body trembling, dentures rattling, until finally, inevitably, my heart just gives out completely. I know what happens when people die – at my age, I’ve been to too many funerals to count. If I had the choice, I’d rather go in my sleep, back home in a comfortable bed. People who die like that look good at the viewing, which is why, if I feel the Grim Reaper tapping my shoulder, I’ve already decided to try to make my way to the backseat. The last thing I want is for someone to find me out here, frozen solid in a sitting position like some bizarre ice sculpture. How would they ever get my body out? The way I’m wedged behind the wheel, it would be like trying to get a piano out of the bathroom. I can imagine some fireman chipping away at the ice and wobbling my body back and forth, saying things like “Swing the head this way, Steve,” or “Wiggle the old guy’s arms that way, Joe,” while they try to manhandle my frozen body