Statistically speaking, we were all much likelier to die in a car accident than in a plane crash. The only problem with that rationale was that it just made me more afraid to get behind the wheel of a car, which explains why my heart felt like a drumbeat in my chest the night I snuck out to visit Gabriela. I like to tell myself that anxiety can be a good tool when you’re operating a vehicle. It keeps you alert and helps you drive defensively. But it can also make you slam on your brakes, too hard, too fast, when you think you see a cat running out into the middle of a busy intersection.

If I close my eyes, I can easily remember what it felt like to sit behind the wheel as my car spun out of control. I can hear the screeching of the brakes, the honks of the other drivers, the sound of metal colliding into the center divider.

This is it, Parisa, my mind told me. This is how it all ends.

When the airbag exploded and pummeled me in the face, I thought, Is this what death feels like? And then everything got quiet, and I was overcome with the relief that I was still alive. I put my hands on my face, and my palms were covered in blood. I quickly unbuckled my seat belt and hurried out of the car in case it was seconds away from going up in flames. As I stumbled out into the road, bystanders pulled over to see if I needed help. One person called 911 while two others whispered about what they’d just witnessed: my car doing a complete three-sixty before smashing into concrete. I touched my lips, but they didn’t feel like they were mine. They were swollen to five times the size of my normal mouth.

“I’m not wearing a mask,” I said aloud to no one in particular.

Another driver glanced at me, but he wouldn’t make eye contact.

“That’s okay, sweetie,” he said. “We’re all wearing masks and we’re all keeping our distance.”

“I need to call my parents,” I replied, but no one responded.

A few minutes later, the paramedics arrived and asked for my consent to be taken to the hospital. I remember wondering how else they expected me to get medical attention. It’s not like I was going to take a ride share in this condition, and there was no way I was going to recover at home without making sure I wasn’t bleeding internally. The two EMTs lifted me onto a stretcher and carted it into the back of the ambulance. My eyes were almost swollen shut, but I could tell that, even behind their masks, they were both gorgeous.

“How bad does my face look?” I asked one of them.

“You’re alive and you’re going to be okay,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”