The argument was about flowers.
Not the important kind of argument — not the venue, the dress, the guest list, all of which had been resolved over seven months of planning. This was the last one: pink roses or white roses for the reception tables.
Dina had called at breakfast. Forty-eight-year-old Leila had been standing at the counter in her coat when her phone rang.
"White roses. I've been saying white for six months."
"Pink matches the centrepieces, Dina."
"The bridesmaids are wearing blush. Everything will look the same colour."
"That is the point — it's called a palette—"
"Mama. I'm sending you a photo. Just look at it and you'll see what I mean."
Leila had glanced at her watch. "I'm already late. Send it again — I'll look in the car."
She drove with the phone on the seat beside her, the GPS on the dash, the mountain road unfolding ahead the way it always did at this hour — still quiet, rock walls catching the morning light. She had driven this road four times this month. The switchbacks, the long straight descents, the particular blind corner two kilometres before the valley. She knew it like a hallway in her own house.
The radio was speaking. A traffic advisory — something about road conditions, a school bus schedule. She heard the word "caution" and didn't process it. She was still thinking about the flowers.
Her phone buzzed.
Dina: "Pink clashes with the bridesmaids. Just look at the photo I sent."
Leila checked the road. Clear. Straight stretch, good visibility, three hundred metres at least.
Three seconds. She had time to look at a photo.
She had promised she would look.
She picked up the phone.
What about you?
Leila knew she had time. Three seconds. She picked up the phone. Have you looked at your phone while driving in the last week?
The school bus had stopped at the crossing two hundred metres ahead. The children were six and seven years old, in yellow vests, coming off in a line — orderly, the way they were taught, holding hands in pairs. The crossing guard was new, twenty-two years old, first month on the job. He had stepped into the road with his sign.
Three seconds was the number Leila had calculated.
Three seconds was how long it took.
She saw the children at the last moment. She saw the crossing guard's face. She hit the brakes and felt the tyres catch and then lose and then there was a sound that she would not be able to describe accurately for the rest of her life, which would be very long.
The flowers were pink. They had been pink all along.
The Aftermath
Police Report — Traffic Division
Vehicle failed to stop at active school crossing. Driver: female, age 48. Phone recovered from floor of vehicle, unlocked, photo application open. Skid marks: 14 metres. Two children struck: female age 6, male age 7. Crossing guard: minor injuries. Speed at time of impact: 68 km/h.
Medical Report
Girl, age 6. Multiple fractures, traumatic head injury. Survived. Prognosis: full motor recovery expected. Cognitive assessment ongoing.
Boy, age 7. Blunt force trauma, internal. Deceased at scene.
Forensic Communications Log
Photo received from Dina's phone: 08:42:17. Photo accessed on Leila's phone: 08:42:19. Collision: 08:42:22. Three seconds. Exactly as calculated.
Statement — Ikhlas, Mother of Yousef (age 7, deceased)
"He was so careful. Every morning I watched him from the window — the way he waited for the crossing guard, the way he held his friend's hand. I taught him that. I spent years teaching him to be careful. And then he died because someone looked at a photo of flowers. I want you to think about that. Whatever you're looking at on your phone right now — I want you to think about whether it is worth a seven-year-old boy."