At the red light, this kid jumps out of the car in front of us and starts sprinting toward the busy intersection. 

We were two cars behind his white Cherokee—he came outta the back, driver-side seat—and when his door flung open I could hear a woman inside, the driver I think, holler something like "Never!" But that's the part I'm not so sure about.

And when he flung his door, he booked it to the intersection. I'm telling you, I can't remember seeing more hustle—elbows churning and bare feet springing off the pavement, youthful bounds they were.

This kid, he couldn't have been more then sixteen, he was wearing his high school P.E. shorts and a tank top shirt and anyone would surmise he was the athletic sort. And, man, he picked a line through the twin rows ahead of him and got after it like a Varsity halfback flying by linebackers. 

The kid was about six cars shy of the intersection when I found my hand on the horn, honking without my consent. 

But that started something and soon a din of a half dozen car horns stalled the runner like a cottontail caught in headlights; he froze and sent his arms out akimbo as if to brace himself against an invisible opponent. 

An F-150 door to the left of the kid opens and snaps him outta the stall. 

The kid turns away from the opening door and eyes down, again, the busy intersection ahead. 

He starts his arms swinging and, here's the curious thing, the car the kid came from hollers again "Never!" while the new man, emerged from the Ford, begins to give chase. 

The kid's gained ten steps before Ford even can lay tracks—the intersection's a whisper away now, mind you, a mere two vehicles.

This kid is making for the home stretch.  Only two cars, a Civic and a Prius, till the white lines marking the crosswalk and the busy intersection beyond. 

I wish I could tell with more detail what happened next, but I averted my eyes as the kid passed the Civic. 

What I heard was the sound of metal giving as much as it will when greeted by a bag of meat. I heard the crunch of crumpling metal and when the last horn stopped, I looked up. 

No screeching tires, no scene of blood and gore. 

Instead, what I saw was a sight for sore eyes: the kid lay crumpled by the drivers' side door of the last car in line, the lowly Prius. 

The driver of the was out and knelt by the kid's side and more were gathering. 

The car the kid left, the white Jeep ahead of me, when traffic cleared and the kid was pulled to the side of the road and held by two strong people, just drove off and through the light. 

And so did I. But the part I still can't understand is this: as I drove on by him, the kid, I swear, looked right at me and through gritted teeth and under on fire eyes spat "never" as I past.

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