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A few days before the accident, Stacey was driving and was shoved across the road when she hit “Dead Man’s Curve,” right beside the Chapel and graveyard. It was raining outside, turning into sleet.


She was headed north on East River Road and the other car south. She had suspicions it was targeted at her, or it was the fate of THE curve.

In the past, at this exact spot, she had hit a deer. The doe came flying out of nowhere: through the olive trees in front of the church and onto the grill of her car. Stacey pulled the dead carcass over to the side. She thought someone would pick it up – but it stayed there from what seemed like weeks.

People at work would say, “Hi.” No How are you? And then proceed to tell me they saw my deer. Hey Stacey, I saw your deer.

It must have been a more cynical employee who renamed it “Deer Stacey’s Curve.” She knew there was no violation when she reported it to her insurance. After living in Montana most of her life, it was miraculous she hadn’t hit a buffalo, moose or a bear.

This time she was shaken, as though it was intentional as the car drove off: not even stopping. Maybe they hadn’t seen her. It felt like it was a warning. “One had to keep going direct and not swerve.”


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