What I saw was the man, no, the man’s hand, no, the deer, I saw the deer on its side, side swept, asleep, no, not asleep, the deer was resting, waiting to die, no, the deer was waiting for the man to get off the phone, his urgent voice I couldn’t hear as I drove past was asking someone to tell him what to do, now that he hit the deer, no, not him, the car, a sort of truck or van, some species of man-sized vehicle, blue hood gray doors (the deer was brown, we call the color fawn) hit, slid sideways off the road, fender facing forest, the man on one knee poised as if to run, act fast as men do in emergencies, but the man stayed with the deer, pressing a strong calm palm on the animal’s haunch, not running his hand through his hair, not reaching to examine his fender, no, his hand was on the deer, you’ll be fine, I’m here—I drove past, fast, drove right out of memory where once I lay, a new bride in a narrow bed, awaiting a wide warm awakening, but he called me a dead cow, and as I cooled and stiffened, no hand on my flank—this is what I remember—the hand of a man (plaid shirt, jeans, boots) not making a fist, not brushing off or away, not bruising, beating, pummeling to oblivion some fawn-like thing, not gripping another man’s throat, not pointing a gun, no—I drove on, wanting there always to be a man laying his hand on a deer as if it were a child, but this was a deer, on the northbound hill at Aasebo, where the 60-zone starts, and there should be a fence but isn’t.