Move your face.
Move your finger.
Move your ear.
Move your gut.
Nope. Nothing worked. He was as good as a human brick. Just useless and motionless. Laying here in the middle of Times Square with his car shattered next to him.
He'd flown through the windshield. He'd hit the ground, neck landing at a weird angle. He'd slid a few feet and come to rest near a fire hydrant.
No sirens were in the distance. Nobody was coming to take him to the hospital. He laid like that for hours, his flaming car eventually going out on its own.
Everything probably hurt real bad, but he couldn't feel it. Probably his clothes were warm with his own blood, but all he felt was cold.
He nodded off for a while, waking up again to the echo of someone laughing. It was late, probably three or four am. Nobody was walking around, not many cars on the road. The big televisions overhead flashed down at him. They couldn't see him either.