Every day I cross Main Street at the midblock crosswalk near the Rouse intersection, and every day I place my life in the hands of drivers who may or may not see me, respect me, or understand the basic legal concept that a human being standing in a crosswalk has the right of way.

I step off the curb. I make eye contact. I hold up my hand in the universal gesture of “please don’t kill me.” And then I walk, briskly, while performing the complex mental calculation of whether the approaching Subaru is slowing down or simply hasn’t noticed me yet.

Montana law is clear: vehicles must yield to pedestrians in a crosswalk. In practice, this means about half of drivers yield, a quarter don’t see you, and the remaining quarter see you and yield with such dramatic, last-second braking that you feel less like a pedestrian and more like a near-miss statistic.

The summer tourists are the most dangerous because they’re looking at the mountains while driving. I don’t blame them. The mountains are beautiful. But I’d appreciate it if they could admire them from a stopped position while I finish crossing.

I’ve developed a system. I wait for a gap. I step out. I walk at 1.5 times my normal speed. I don’t look at my phone. I make myself as large and visible as possible, which at five-foot-three is a modest achievement. And I arrive on the other side feeling the quiet euphoria of someone who has survived something they shouldn’t have had to survive on a Wednesday afternoon.

Margot Kettleman crosses Main Street an average of six times per day and considers each one a minor triumph.