Route 62 from Irvine to Tidioute was a head-shaker of a road: tight, curvy, dark in all the wrong spots -- a wicked stretch between the foothills and the river.  Peterson had this blue hatchback, and there we were, tooling down the road, speakers blaring Metallica or Nirvana or some such angst.  The doe, of course, appeared out of nowhere, and we clipped her good, dented the hood even, so Peterson braked hard and skidded to a stop.  We found her in the brush beyond the weeds, hunkered low, legs folded in, and breathing hard.
"What the heck," one of us said then stared some more at the loss until Peterson said, "Tire iron."
"What?"
"She's hurt.  We need to be merciful."