A screech of tires, a screech of a woman, an impact and I’m flying. I land in the gutter, and people begin crowding around me, pressing close and muttering.

I wave them away, push myself up, then stand. I’m not injured, of course. As I brush the gutter dirt out of my clothes and face, the circle of bystanders around me groans and disperses.

“Oh, it’s just an immortal,” says the woman who screeched.

“How boring,” says a young boy.

The driver is climbing out of his car, shouting “You dented my hood!”

Can’t I get any sympathy?

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