It was Epiphany, January 6, 1994. A Thursday. A typical Minnesota winter morning with a little snow overnight.

Got up early. Cleaned off the driveway. Read the paper. Ate breakfast. Got dressed: put on "the blacks" for a funeral later in the morning. At 8:05 A.m. I said goodbye to my wife, Pat, who would be leaving for work a few minutes later.

The roads were a little snow-packed, but conditions were not extreme. A few minutes after I arrived in the office, I heard a siren that was headed back up the road I had just traveled. I had a funny feeling. Then the telephone rang.

"Is this Steve McKinley?"

"Yes."

"Your wife was just in an auto accident. She's banged up a bit, but all right."

I got the precise location of the accident and flew out the door. When I arrived at the scene, I instantly saw that the car was a mess. I was more concerned about Pat. I found her seated inside the paramedics' vehicle, bleeding nastily from the forehead.

Off to the hospital emergency room. The doctors stitched her ...