Cynthia’s fingers clutched the steering wheel tightly as she drove the beach road, her headlights barely cutting through the summer night’s fog. Steve wanted to apologize but did not know how. “We’re going back tomorrow,” she said. “I tried,” Steve protested, hating how weak his words sounded. She sighed. “Damn it Steven, you acted like I wasn’t even there tonight. This vacation was suppose to… you promised me that the accident was… was behind you.” “It is,” he said. Cynthia had looked beautiful, the night had been calm, just a warm breeze to caress the skin, and the food had tasted great. But Steve had been distracted. Even when they…