Our protagonist woke up to the regular blare of morning news spewing from his alarm radio. Its garishly red numbers reflected his particular distaste for Mondays and anything else ending in “day.” It was strange to him, how the word normally conjured images of sun bursting through a lover's hair or wildflowers growing peacefully in a pasture. He fell out of bed and announced his new state of alert with a loud, disgruntled groan.

Take shower. Brush teeth. Get dressed. Sip coffee.

The walk from his doorway to the elevator wasn't especially exciting, and the taste of the coffee didn't help. Our protagonist really hated coffee. He drank it so he could try to enjoy everything else a bit more.

Thinking about his upcoming day at the office, he stumbled over a crack in the concrete floor. He fell toward the unforgiving metal elevator doors and in a groggy stupor smacked his head on them. Somehow, as he was falling, his hand pressed the call button. The doors opened immediately, almost to taunt him. He rolled across the floor into the elevator after deciding that standing up would only lead to falling again. He lay on the elevator floor all the way down.

As he opened the door of his dilapidated van, the scent of old Thai take-out and cheap air fresheners greeted him. A tattered sleeping bag sat placidly in the backseat, a reminder of almost better days. At least when he was homeless he had had time to think and watch the constellations.

The van screamed for mercy as its key turned in the ignition. His foot fed the machine, and it hacked loudly in response. Coffee mug still choked in his left hand, he employed his right to pull the levers necessary to put the vehicle in motion. If it had been alive, the machine would have warned its driver of the impending danger behind them. It would have simply refused to move. Perhaps not.

As the two cars collided, his coffee mug escaped his grip and connected with his face. He woke up a short while later to a fat lip, a chipped tooth, and a pulsing swell square in the middle of his forehead. The blood in his nose and on the coffee mug was a good indication that our protagonist had been knocked out.

He didn't bother to survey the damage. He didn't think about writing an apology note or leaving his information. He simply pulled the sleeping bag out of the backseat and walked away, whistling.