Brecken knows a chance when he sees it. He starts the car, and the engine purrs to life. Both doors are still open and Corey rises, wedging himself in the open door.

“You go nowhere you little shit!”

I want to scream, but the breath I suck in freezes in my throat. Harper yells for me, and we both shrink back, closer to Kayla. Away from the smell of cigarettes and diesel fuel emanating from Corey’s canvas jacket.

“Get out!” someone growls, and I can’t quite tell if it’s Corey or Brecken. They’re struggling. Josh is leaning over now, smacking at Corey, grabbing for the wheel. The father is up again, looming outside of the door. The air tastes like sweat and gasoline and violence.

There are punches. Kicks. Terror.

Brecken is getting the upper hand and the father yanks Corey hard. The boy topples out of the car, groaning, and the father is in, one meaty fist immediately clamped around Brecken’s throat. Brecken makes a strangled, gurgling noise. Josh squirms with a cry, leaning over the console, one hand on the wheel, one hand trying to pull the father’s fingers off of Brecken.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Harper sobs.

“Help us!” Josh yells back at us.

Suddenly, Brecken throws the car in reverse. We lurch backward, dragging the father down to the pavement. He swears and crumples.

My heart is leaping. Galloping. I scramble for my seat belt.

Josh’s door is still open. One of his feet is dangling outside again. Brecken punches the accelerator and grabs the wheel. Josh is still holding it, too. The wheel twists and there is a horrifying sound. A thump-thump like we’re going over a speed bump.

Except speed bumps don’t scream.

Harper’s shriek rises into a wail.

“Shit! Shitshitshitshitshit!” Brecken hits the brakes hard, coughing roughly.

My stomach tumbles end over end as I look out front. Our headlights illuminate the snow-covered lot and the two dark figures near our tire tracks. One of the men is prone and twitching on the ground.

The father. Please let it be the father. The one who choked Brecken. The one whose bones don’t look like they’d snap under a stiff breeze.

But it’s not the father. It’s Corey.

We hit a person. A guy who can’t be much older than us. He’s bleeding into the snow because of what happened. Because of us.

I want to look away, but I can’t. Corey flails and screams, his upper body writhing in obvious agony. His left leg—jutting at a strange angle—does not move. Slowly my eyes process the scene spotlighted beside our tire tracks. His leg seems pinned to the pavement, his shoe pointing the wrong direction. It’s that sight—that impossibly twisted shoe—that almost brings the contents of my stomach up.

“Holy shit,” Josh says quietly. He must have seen it, too.