He remembered the before. The harsh screeches of metal as cars collided. The panicked screams and sudden burst of flames.
He remembered the after. The fingers pointing in every direction, but the right one like bloodhounds on a hunt. The proclamation that promised no survivors. The burial in the cemetery by the river where he promised his son's gravestone he'd find the one to blame.
But he forgot the during. The minutes that seemed like hours. The darkness they called cardiac arrest that replayed the slurring of his words in the before like a broken record.