Hills rose above the trees in Mt. Airy. McCallum St. barreled down from Glen Echo Rd at the hill’s top to Lincoln Drive at the foot of the incline. Despite its grand size, the slope’s drop was not abrupt for passersby advancing up or marching down the hill. Road bumps acted as safety nets, warning attentive drivers there was still some road to go until a turn onto bustling Lincoln Drive.
On either side of the incline were homes two-to-three floors tall. These houses were wide, front lawns lined with daffodils and colorful flowers. The homes were rectangular, slanting on the McCallum St. hill like homes in San Francisco.
An elderly blind black man aimlessly wandered uphill. He wore a tattered navy-blue jacket, a paint splotched puce green t-shirt and faded jeans. A warmth waved on him from the face down. It was a bright cloudless day. Normally he’d sit at peace on a bench somewhere, but a darkness preoccupied him.
He couldn’t see. His cane had been broken in half the previous night, and the half stick he had left was not making a loud enough echo to hear properly. Haphazard taps clacked off the ground as he hunched over, using a tool half his arm length.
Digital clicks filled the car as the driver squinted at his phone, trying to finish his text telling his wife how nice the weather today was, when a boom rang in his ears, a mass covered the windshield, glass broke, the engine sputtered and he veered into a tree.