Where was the opening to the bridge? The de-fogger was no match for the cloudy windshield. The broken fan clicked like a playing card wedged in a bicycle wheel. She swiped a palm across the glass. If she could just cross the creek, she’d find Jonas’s lane on the other side. She veered again, and the bridge came fully into view. She blinked.

Correction: the portion of the bridge that was above water came into view.

Paralyzed, she stared into menacing darkness, sweaty fingers clamping the wheel. The creek was flooded. It overtopped its banks in a raging torrent, completely submerging the span in a race to the river. Gasping, she slammed the brakes like her leg was a pile driver.

The tires screeched again, and the pop-top skidded off the road. Out of control, it crashed through brush and into the roiling depths. Chunks of debris hammered the doors and the windows.

Lifted by the current, she spun ninety degrees and hurtled downstream. “Jonas!” she screamed.

The van listed and rammed headlong into the bridge with a thunderous crunch.

She vaulted onto the steering wheel, driving the shaft into her ribs and knocking the wind from her body. Fighting for breath, she opened her lips fishlike, just as the camper lurched again. Like it had a score to settle, the angry current caught the rear of the bus, swinging it around and slamming it sidelong into the span. Her forehead smashed into the driver’s side window, and a million, zillion fireflies zoomed before her eyes. Then the night faded to inky black.

****

Rain lashed the windows and seeped under the door, soaking the rag rug and puddling on the kitchen floor. Jonas thought he’d fixed that leak. Not that he cared tonight. He slid the lantern closer and squinted, barely able to see in this light.

Almost in a trance, he sketched, smudging a soft shadow under her chin and arcing long lashes.

“Don’t forget the freckles on my nose,” the bowed lips whispered. “Let me look at you.”

Even as he gave it life, the familiar expression skewered his heart.

Gnawing the eraser, he stretched his legs under the kitchen table, arching against the hard-backed chair. His calves cramped. The walk home was torture in the rain, and he jogged at least half of it. Maybe a bath would help him relax…and finally sleep. How many hours had he been awake anyway? Twenty? Twenty-one? Yes, a bath.

He stared at the paper. He didn’t want to draw her. He didn’t want to think about her. But he had no other choice.