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him out.”
    A shudder made its way through Shawn. “God, no. Don’t tell her that. Most days she doesn’t remember she has a son. If you tell her who I am, it’ll require hours of explanation, for naught. Now hang for a moment while I tell Bernice I’m leaving, and we can get on our way.”
    We waved good-bye to Bernice, the woman from the respite agency, and jumped in the car. I checked out Shawn’s attire and completely appreciated his casual dark blue shirt and jeans. His black hair was gelled into spikes and he appeared to have shaved recently. I approved of his looks, not his choice of clothes. I would leave the lecture about how some poor twelve-year-old girl was paid a pittance to sew those jeans and just enjoy the sight of Shawn’s legs and butt in the taut material.
    “Nice jeep,” Shawn commented. I was a little surprised at his first subject, since he didn’t give off a car-mad vibe. I wondered if we would be talking oil changes and horsepower all night. “Do you have it serviced regularly?”
    “Yes,” I told him. “Just two weeks ago, if you need to know.”
    “Oh, good,” Shawn answered. “We shouldn’t break down, then.”
    If I knew what I know now, I wouldn’t have laughed at that comment. It’s remarkable how many roadworthy cars stop working when Shawn is in them. Recently we caught a taxi home after consuming too many alcoholic drinks. The taxi lost all electrical power in the middle of the road. The driver tinkered with the dash and even popped the hood to take a look. Shawn giggled in the backseat next to me, then whispered, “I reckon I can walk twenty meters away and it’ll start.”
    He climbed out and walked up the path a bit. Sure enough, about ten steps away from the car, the driver called out in relief that it was working again. He started the car and looked at me in the back seat, and then at Shawn walking up the road.
    “You still need ride home, eh?” he asked in broken English.
    “Can you pull up and pick up my mate?” I asked.
    He placed the car in drive and moved up the road. As we pulled up next to Shawn, the car died again. That’s my Shawn—a man of superpowers. We gave up on the taxi, paid the man for his trouble, and walked home, taking a little detour through the nearby park where no street lights shone and where Shawn demonstrated some of his other superpowers to me.
    However, for our first date, it wasn’t my car that caused us trouble. Six o’clock on a Friday evening meant that peak-hour traffic was still clogging the roads in and out of the city. I joined the queue of drivers, and we chatted about my job as we made our way along. It was hot, so we both had our windows down for relief. Inching along at between twenty and forty kilometers an hour, the open windows kept us cool without blowing us away.
    Then, out of nowhere, there was such a loud noise that I swear I jumped two feet in the air and peed my pants at the same time. Despite being a well-rounded traveler to over fifteen different countries, I’d never heard a gunshot fired at close range. That was the first thing my mind jumped to as I slammed on the brakes, trying to work out from what direction the sound came. Shawn and I both looked to the left as a car shot forward and crashed into the van in front of it, creating another loud explosion and clueing us in to the source of the initial sound. Sure enough, a small white hatchback rolled past us where we were stopped, its bonnet crumpled and airbags deployed. A young girl was behind the wheel with her hands over her face in horror.
    “Shit,” I cried.
    It became obvious that the white hatchback had hit the car in front of her, causing that car to hit the van. They couldn’t have been doing any more than about forty, so there weren’t likely to be injuries. Cars these days are built to crumple on impact and take the kinetic forces, so it seemed worse than it was. But vehicles stopped all around the accident, bringing the freeway to a