No Rhyme Or Reason

She swerves all over the motorway, crying and calling out. Her daughter sits quietly beside her. She knows not to argue or cry, not when her mother has been drinking so much, not when she's in this state.

And now she sits by the wreckage of the car, the car that has flipped over and landed on its roof, not a scratch on her.

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He carefully checks his young daughter's crash helmet, and adjusts the straps, before they get on to his motorbike. She loves riding behind her dad, does it every day to school.

But now she lies unconscious on the road, blood from both ears.