"Don't look back," she tells him. She is driving, and her oversized sunglasses make it impossible to see her eyes, but her mouth, although not frowning, is firmly set.
He sits in the passenger seat and trains his eyes on the windshield in front of him, the road beyond curving away. The grass on either side is still green, even as the trees are changing color and losing their leaves.
But today it is sunny, and they can almost believe it is still summer, that the rain of the previous night never fell, and that what lies behind is not smoldering wreckage, the timbers of lives so carefully built now falling in on one another in a heap of splinters that pierce the heart.
Don't look back. Easy enough, no need to turn to salt. But even inside the car, the smoky smell of burned bridges lingers.