“Hit and Run”

Rebecca E. Khan

What on earth a carabao was doing on the North Luzon Expressway is irrelevant. What does matter is that
Nico’s F150 has a broken headlight, a semiconscious bovine is lying prostrate smack in the center of a highway, and
I am in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night with a guy I met the middle of last week, who could have
very possibly just killed an innocent carabao. Scurrying off for a reckless weekend in Subic was definitely a bad
idea. And not just because a farm animal got fatally injured on the way home.

I become aware of a throbbing bump on my head, though I’m not sure whether I got it from hitting my
head on the dashboard upon the sudden brake, or hitting the headboard one too many times back in Subic. Either
way, it’s a bump caused by Nico’s sudden movements. The weekend wasn’t a total waste.

Nico is flailing about in the beam of one headlight, eyes zipping back and forth from the massive white
beast to his damaged truck. He is yelling Spanish expletives into the midnight air, more upset about his broken
headlight than the moaning animal splayed in front of the vehicle.

The carabao’s head is in front of the passenger side, and as I step onto the road to get a closer look, I am
startled to see the animal’s dark, glossy eyes looking straight into my own as it moans. “Look what you’ve done to
me! Don’t leave me, you evil human!” It’s an irritating, plaintive noise. This carabao sounds a lot like my ex-
boyfriend, come to think of it.

There is no sign of blood anywhere, and were it not for the beast’s intermittent moaning, there would be no
indication that it had been hurt. Nico voices out his observation that the animal is devoid of reins, brands, or any
signs of ownership.

“Maybe he doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“There’s no such thing as a wild carabao nowadays.”

“There’s no one here. Maybe we should just leave it.”

“Nico, this animal might die.”

“It won’t die. It’s just shaken up a bit. Get in the car, babe. No one will even know we were here. C’mon,
it’s too cold out here for that cute little skirt of yours.”

Nico ushers me back into the F150. As soon as he settles into the driver’s seat, he puts the stick shift into
reverse, maneuvers the vehicle around the carabao, then barrels down the highway. I look back. The carabao’s white
body, glowing in the moonlight, lies across the two center lanes. Pieces of glass from Nico’s headlight twinkle by its
side.

Nico speeds up some more and the carabao is completely out of view. Noticing I’m still looking back, Nico
cups my face in his hand and turns it toward him.

“I had fun this weekend, baby. I’ll call you sometime this week, OK? We’ll do dinner or something.”

Call me? Sure, of course he will.

(498 words)