He’s swearing softly, pushing his way between a large truck with no one inside and the concrete wall. I don’t want to look behind us. I don’t want to know why he’s swearing over and over under his breath.

But I do.

My stomach shoves itself into my throat, perches there so tightly that I can’t breathe. There’s a tractor trailer at the top of the hill, and it’s coming down sideways. My lizard brain shoots adrenaline into my limbs—pushing me to get out of the car. To run.

Because this truck will hit everything on this bridge. It’ll destroy us.

“Go!” I scream, even though he’s already going. I can hear the strain of the engine, the awful push/scrape of concrete on one side and metal on the other. Everyone is shouting. I don’t know who is saying what. I don’t recognize my own voice in the mix, but I know I’m screaming, too.

Finally, we punch through, our car sailing forward, free of the truck and the wall. The tires slip and catch and spin a little until he adjusts the acceleration. We are halfway across the bridge when the truck hits the cars behind us.

Brecken does not stop.

I see an explosion of plastic and metal and unfathomable damage. My throat goes tight. A sickening certainty settles in my gut; a lot of people won’t walk away from that wreck. Fifteen seconds ago, I would have been one of them.

I watch the bridge for movement, but all is still. Calm. There is no smoke or fire. As we cross the seam where the bridge meets the highway, I see a few drivers stumble from their vehicles, moving toward the front.

There are people to help. Lots of people in the back and they don’t all look injured. I should be relieved, but instead I feel nothing but guilt.

I don’t know how we would help. I don’t know what we could possibly do. But driving away from this bridge feels like a crime. Everyone else seems unmoved. They are still worried about us getting out of here. Getting to safety. How can I fault them for that?

Brecken drives slower for the next mile than he has the entire trip. An exit sign, green and inviting, promises gas and not much else in half a mile. The snow hitting our windshield is changing, the flakes turning small and icy. It’s probably making the roads worse, but the visibility is better. In the distance, a symphony of blue and red lights flash. Help is coming. It should have come a while ago.

We round a slight bend just before the exit and more lights—cruisers and ambulances and fire engines—surround a giant wreck I hadn’t seen on both sides of the highway.

“That’s the wreck the app warned about,” Josh says softly.