An ambulance screamed past Marvin Slade’s pickup truck before disappearing at the intersection into a sea of flashing lights. Slade pulled down the bill of his hat and thought, this is trouble.

Medics and cops passed slowly back and forth between emergency vehicles, cutting their own measured time through the hectic morning commute like an open slice of daydream.

Life had thrown Slade enough heartache to know only death slows the world down that way. Losing his daughter did that well enough. The fog of her passing still lingered, as it always would.

And when the medics rolled a stretcher from out of the chaos, hidden beneath a clean white sheet, Slade instinctively brought his knuckles to his teeth. “Fuck,” he drawled, dropping his eyes toward the floorboards.

The dashboard clock hit 8:00. He was late. Slade turned across the yellow lines and went the other way.

Nine hours later and heading home, Slade slowed at the edge of the intersection, his tires crawling uncomfortably over the asphalt like stepping on an unmarked grave. He grimaced, giving the street a hard look, wondering where, exactly, this life had been taken.

Other cars sped past him and he thought, no one cares what happened here.

In the corner of his eye, though, he caught a glimpse of the small red heart, tucked away beside the curb like a gift-wrapped package fallen from the mail truck. The moment fled quickly as the traffic pushed him away, but the image refused to leave his mind.

That night Slade drank whiskey with the television loud, trying not to think of a stranger’s grief. He fell asleep in his recliner and awoke groggy in the morning, dousing his face in cold water before dragging himself back to work.

He rubbed his eyes again at the intersection. Because now the hearts had spread, scattered like wildflowers sprouting in a vacant city lot. He scratched his face as an ache settled deeper into his heart.

Slade took more breaks than usual that day, stretching during every one to ease the tightness in his chest. He could hardly drive a nail straight. When he finally left for home, Slade approached the intersection cautiously, unsure of what might be waiting.

From corner to corner, hearts blanketed the asphalt. Not a piece of black tar broke through. Slade pulled onto the gravel shoulder and sat with both hands on the wheel. He chewed the ins of his cheeks before turning off the engine and walking slowly back to the crossroads.

He hadn’t noticed that in the middle of the bed of the hearts lie the outline of a man, a red heart in the center of his chest, one hand outstretched above his head waving. Slade swallowed hard and stared at the man in the road, as he quietly acknowledged the commuters above, rushing home to their families.