One night in November 1993, as I was driving east on 56th Street right before its interchange with I-465, I ran over a possum going from the north side of the road to the south side.
I knew I hit it because I could hear the thump of my tire as I drove over it.
Then I felt guilty: Possibly more guilty than necessary.
I hadn't meant to kill it and hadn't swerved soon enough to prevent the accident.
More importantly, I felt guilty because I killed something that looked semihuman in the head and face: Like either a bald old man in a fur coat or a bald, wrinkled baby in a fur blanket.