Where was Betsy?

On firm footing now, I ran to the passenger side of her car. I saw her inside, struggling with the door as both vehicles eerily tilted back and forth, back and forth.

I pulled the handle from the outside. It wouldn’t open. The door had been jammed in the accident. She could not exit the passenger door or she would step right off the cliff. The truck and car lurched forward.

“Open the window all the way!” I screamed, terrified.

“I tried, I tried! It’s stuck. Get back, Rose! Stand back!”

“No! Come through the window!”

I reached my arms in to grab her, and she started scrambling through the window, hardly fitting, the window halfway down. The vehicles screeched against each other again, a grinding, echoing, deathly noise.

I had my hands under her arms, her hands gripping my arms, and I pulled as hard as I could while she kicked free. The cars made a final grinding, banging noise, and I yanked her out as they both tumbled over the cliff. Betsy landed straight on top of me and I fell to my back, my head slamming against the pavement. Her car and my truck bounced their way down the cliff, the noise deafening, then landed with a thud before one of them, or both of them, exploded, crackling flames and black smoke flying up.

She levered herself over me. “Rose, are you okay? Are you all right?” Her golden eyes, like mine, were wide, her face panicked.

“I’m fine, hurt only a bit.” That wasn’t true. My head felt like it had split open. My neck felt like there were spears sticking through it. “How are you?”

For long seconds she didn’t say anything, then she smiled and her tears fell on my face. “Rose,” she breathed. “Except for this accident, this is the best day of my life. The very best day! I get to see my daughter again.” Then she cried and we both sat up, and she hugged me close and I hugged her back. Hugging Betsy was as normal to me as breathing . . . or reading.

“I have always loved you, Rose. Always.” Her mouth trembled. “And thank you for saving my life.”

* * *

The flames and the billowing black smoke were seen from town and from Mr. Jamon’s house. Mr. Jamon came down gripping his cane, in his robe with his inhaler, gasping for breath but endearingly worried about me. He’d called 911 for the police and an ambulance.

Chief Ass Burn did not come. No one asked why. No one knew where he was.

I later found that interesting, but we were all better off without him there.

* * *

Betsy and I went to the hospital and were treated in different rooms. We were banged up and bruised. My head hurt, my neck hurt, my back hurt. Nothing that wouldn’t heal.