Mike had ended up alone, his family stripped from him by ridiculous accidents. A little voice had started in his head then, an unwanted, unbidden, unprovable, ridiculous rationalization of the events, a kind of conspiracy theory in his mind, a budding paranoia that someone was after him and his family. He knew it wasn’t likely to be remotely true, and that coincidences happen, but even so, somehow he’d found it comforting, in a way.
So when he’d nearly missed blending into the red paint on the grille of that truck, he had hatched his plan.