Dean and I spent the summer of 1984 in Los Angeles while he interned at RAND. His aunt and uncle who live in Pasadena loaned us a small, white pickup truck while we were there.
One sunny day on our way to a beach we were driving along the Pacific Coast Highway and the vehicle directly in front of us, a small truck with a covered bed, suddenly swerved up along the hilly side of the road, then flipped over on the road and burst into flames. Dean slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car and ran toward the truck. He didn’t get close because of the heat coming from the fire. No one else stopped. We never saw anyone get out of the truck. It haunts me still.