"He thinks of the severed, crossed fingers found perfectly survived in the wreckage of a local plane crash last year. Such fate was contrary and dense, like a dumb secretary, failing to understand the overall gestalt and desire of the wish. He prefers a deeper, cleverer, even tardy fate, like that of a girl he knew once in law school, who, years before, had been raped, shot, and left for dead but then had crawled ten hours out of the woods to the highway with a .22 bullet in her head and flagged a car. That’s when you knew that life was making something up to you, that the narrative was apologizing. God had glanced up from his knitting, perhaps even risen from his freaking wicker rocker, and staggered at last to the window to look."
From “Beautiful Grade”