Harper jerks her hand up to her chest protectively, cradling it with her other hand. Brecken approaches and the wipers smear that tiny red drop into a thin, grotesque arc across the glass.

I wince. “I think she cut herself.”

“Yeah,” Josh says. “On the wiper blade probably. They have sharp edges.”

“Really? She cut herself?” Kayla asks, leaning forward to get a better look. I ignore her. If this girl starts professing her love of Japanese horror films, Josh is sitting in the middle.

Outside, Brecken tries to examine Harper’s cut, but she pulls out of his grip. He shucks his gloves and reaches for her like she’s an injured animal. Her hand drips red onto the white hood. Josh sighs and twists in his seat. Maybe the blood is making him squeamish? No, he’s looking for something in the back.

Kayla laughs again.

“Really?” I ask her.

She frowns at me, but she stops laughing, so I guess I made my point. Beside me, Josh unbuckles, grunting as he tries to shift around.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I need to get my suitcase. I was going to get them something for the blood.”

“Let me try,” I say.

I unbuckle and twist around so I can reach his bag. It’s as sturdy and unremarkable as the rest of him, an oversized navy-blue messenger bag sandwiched between Harper’s leather bag and the back of our seat. I tug it free inch by inch, but Josh pats my arm.

“Just unzip the front compartment. There’s a little bag in there.”

“Shit, she’s really bleeding,” Kayla says, finally sounding concerned.

“Thanks, Mira,” he says. Then, to Kayla, “She’s fine. Fingers and heads bleed a ton.”

“What am I looking for here?” I ask.

“There should be some gauze in the first aid kit.”

“First aid kit?” I laugh. “Are you a Boy Scout?”

He raises three fingers with a rueful grin. “Motto is ‘be prepared.’”

I find the gauze, as promised, and pull a couple of individually wrapped squares out of the box. A rush of icy air freezes me when Harper’s door is flung open. The car alarm dings in harmony with Harper’s whimpers. Brecken ducks his head in around her.

“We need some napkins or something,” he says.

“Here.” I pass up the gauze and some tape, noticing the smears of crimson on Brecken’s hand, too. It’s vibrant, shocking red—or maybe it just looks that way because their skin is so pale.

Then there’s nothing to see but the sides of their bodies, legs close together and arms and hands out of view. I hear the door’s soft alarm. Brecken’s muffled voice. Harper’s small, mousy sounds.

I turn my attention to the windshield. On the glass, her blood is almost gone, only the faintest trail of scarlet left in one corner of the windshield.