DECEMBER 2025, FLASH, 900 WORDS “How do we tell her?” Glee asked as we stood on the side of the interstate, pavement torn into tattered hunks, trees sprouting from exposed dirt. Guardrails had rusted to complete copper, stretches of metal crumbling to pavement, lying like dying snakes beneath the sun’s glare. “I’m not sure it’s our place,” I told my daughter. “The whole death thing must be rough already.