Brian Mayhew never saw it coming.

When the rusty red truck blew a stop sign right in front of his motorcycle, he had seconds to stop--seconds that were robbed from him by the ice beginning to glaze over the road as night really got going. The collision shattered the quiet of the empty road, shattered the truck's front headlight, and shattered Brian's helmet as he flipped over the bike's front end and struck the slick, freezing asphalt.

The truck stopped with a screech, and Brian rolled dizzily to his feet. He grabbed his head, his body, his legs--and was astonished to realize he was unhurt.

A man jumped out of the truck, hollering. "Oh God, no! No!! Are you okay?"

Brian stared down at himself, barely believing it. "I'm... I'm fine."

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"Holy Christ," the man said. "You are so... you are so lucky!"

"I know," Brian gasped. He looked at his motorcycle. It had been crushed under the truck's heavy front wheels. A total loss.

"I can't believe you survived that! Jesus! You must be the luckiest guy on the planet! Nice lawyer job, sweet wife, little baby girl--Christ, even your house--God, I could puke it's all so perfect!"

Brian looked up at the man for the first time. His breath caught in his throat.

"I'm sorry for hitting you," said the man who looked like Brian's exact twin. He pulled out a pistol. "But I'm mostly sorry you lived."

Brian's mouth was so dry, he could hardly speak. "Who are you?"

The man smiled sadly. "Well, now... I'm Brian Mayhew."