The Tyrant's Tomb

We have a special
Today on slightly used trucks
Thanks, Target shoppers
MY SON ASCLEPIUS ONCE explained the purpose of physical shock to
me.
He said it’s a safety mechanism for coping with trauma. When the human
brain experiences something too violent and frightening to process, it just
stops recording. Minutes, hours, even days can be a complete blank in the
victim’s memory.
Perhaps this explained why I had no recollection of the Chevy crashing.
After hurtling through the guardrail, the next thing I remembered was
stumbling around the parking lot of a Target store, pushing a three-wheeled
shopping cart filled with Meg. I was muttering the lyrics to “(Sittin’ on) The
Dock of the Bay.” Meg, semiconscious, was listlessly waving one hand,
trying to conduct.
My cart bumped into a steaming crumpled heap of metal—a red Chevy
Silverado with its tires popped, its windshield broken, and its air bags
deployed. Some inconsiderate driver had plummeted from the heavens and
landed right on top of the cart return, smashing a dozen shopping carts
beneath the weight of the pickup.
Who would do such a thing?
Wait…
I heard growling. A few car-lengths away, two metal greyhounds stood
protectively over their wounded master, keeping a small crowd of spectators