My windscreen exploded when I hit a 16-year-old cyclist with my Toyota Corolla in March, on what was meant to be just a quick trip to the bakery. Glass covered the bag of pastries on my passenger seat as I came to a stop at the end of my street, just 200 metres from my front door.
Having flown over my bonnet, the kid was lying on the dewy Brunswick asphalt in a crumple of shock and school uniform, the balance of our lives suspended in his cries: “My back! My back! My back!”
