The car had gone over without skid marks, directly into the lapse of barrier, then rolled longways, head to toe, rather than side to side. its roof had peeled back on one revolution, and on the next, the windshield had landed in the driver’s lap, a sheet of sparkling pebbles like chain mail. her neck had been broken during the first tumble, her arm flung over her head by centrifugal force, the fingers snared by the sheered metal moon-roof rim. The dog had been saved by the doubleness of her enclosure: inside the kennel, inside the car’s venerated metal egg. At the bottom of the hill, the vehicle landed on its wheels, finally at rest, not hidden from the highway but not in a location where anyone would be looking. After all, it was the peaks in the distance, the wide-shouldered majesty of Mounts Sunshine and Wilson, brilliantly snow-capped against the purple sky, somehow more vibrant than ordinary three-dimensionality, as if accompanied by the tonal shimmer of a clanged bell, there with a vague shrugging of bluing clouds, golden beams radiating as if from a godly crown, simmering red sun sinking behind. To encounter it was to shiver with pleasure and awe, overcome by beauty. Why would anyone glance down?
Bound is Antonya’s tenth book of fiction and her fourth novel. She was named by The New Yorker as one of the twenty best writers of her generation.