I climbed into the truck. Jamey lay where I had left her, tipped over awkwardly on her side, across the front seats. There was blood on her shoulders and her neck, blood flecking her hair like bits of red ribbon. I remembered her story about derby night, the girl with the bows who Starla had been named for. I remembered our fight about the firewood. I wished we had stopped and stolen all their wood. I wished we had taken a different way, stayed on the back roads forever.

“Jamey?” I touched her arm. “Jamey?”

The man would be back in a minute. Maybe Jake was alive, or maybe Jake was dead, but the man would be back, angry. I tried to pull Jamey across the seat to me. She left a red streak on the cushions.

I looked for a wound, not exactly sure what I was searching for, and afraid to feel for it. I pushed the hair back from her head. A lump was rising on her forehead; she must have struck it on the steering wheel. I couldn’t see any rips in her clothing. My fingers trembled, looking, until...there: the side of her hip had a red gash, torn and raw.

When I found the wound, her body shuddered with a breath that almost made me scream.

She was alive.

It was a small gash. The bullet had just grazed her; she must have been knocked out when she hit her head. I propped her onto my shoulder. She was heavy but not as heavy as I thought.

And she was breathing.

It was too hard. It was too much weight. I couldn’t do it. I was trembling. I took her down off my shoulder, resting her on the truck seat again. She made a rattling sound. Her eyes stayed closed, but her chest moved, up and down. I had to do this. I put my hands under her arms, trying to avoid touching her wound, then dragged her.

I pulled Jamey around the front of the truck to the ditch, then balancing her back on my shoulders again, I took a breath, stepped over the ditch, and hauled her up the hill. At the first sapling, I paused to breathe. I set her down, then began to drag her again. I couldn’t rest for long.

From the direction of the truck, I heard a cackling, like Lobo coming up the stairs to grab one of us, whoever was closer would do. Things never sounded like what they were: guns, fire. Everything terrible sounded much more innocent.

This wasn’t laughter. Not at all.

A fuel line in the truck must have been cut in the accident. The tank had punctured, was dripping gas. It found its spark. It caught.