Once upon a time in Michigan

 

We were headed to the beach, finally looking forward to a calm day after yesterday’s blasting winds. The car had barely rolled to the end of the driveway when there was a sudden thud, followed by a hesitation in the engine, like we’d just ran into something large.

I slammed the brakes and jammed the shifter into park.
“What did we hit?!” Claudia shouted as I jumped out.

I crept around the front of the car, heart hammering. Then I saw it.

Flat on its back, flailing weakly, was a full-grown male mosquito.  This thing was the size of a retriever. One wing was bent at an unnatural angle, and a thin line of blood had shot across the asphalt. Its compound eyes locked on mine. It grimaced in pain, waiting, almost daring me to finish the job.

I froze. Claudia joined me at the front, staring in horror.

“Rats,” she muttered. “If this thing left a dent, the rental company’s gonna charge us.”

The mosquito twitched, trying to right itself. The wings buzzed like chainsaws. Both of us leapt back.

“Get in the car!” I yelled. We scrambled inside, slamming the doors, fumbling with the locks.

I gripped the wheel. “Hold on.” The car lurched forward, rolling over what felt like a massive speed bump.

And then came the sound. Imagine smashing a ripe watermelon, that has been coated with Doritos, and adding a high-pitched squeal—half tea kettle, half dental drill. That sound will haunt me forever.

Claudia just shook her head.
“We’ll need counseling,” I said.

She sighed. “Maybe you.”