The door flies open again, and there I am. Wearing a white shirt, a yellow tie that Dad helped me knot, navy pants, and brown shoes. I walk up to Chloe and spread my arms wide as if asking her what’s the matter?

She looks at me for a long moment, but then she starts walking away.

There’s no sound. We move across the little screen like actors in a silent movie.

Then Chloe stops. She turns and looks back at me. She’s upset. She’s pointing at me as she says something. Or is she pointing at the gym? At something inside?

My arms go up again, and Chloe spins and starts to walk away. She’s moving fast. Almost running.

I follow her, my arms still wide. Pleading. We go between the parked cars, the bottom halves of our bodies disappearing. But I can still see my arms. My mouth moving as I say something to Chloe. We don’t look angry. We look…confused? Unhappy? She looks like she’s trying to convince me to leave.

The camera pans and follows us. Whoever is filming—Daniel, I presume—moves so quickly. The camera shakes with his steps.

Eventually we stop on the driver’s side of the car. Her face is a mask of hurt. It’s so rare, I can’t tell if she’s crying.

I repeatedly point back at the school—like I want to go there.

Finally, Chloe throws up her hands and dashes around the back of the car. She opens the passenger door, her head disappearing from view as she gets in.

I get in behind the steering wheel.

A few long moments tick by.

Is that it? Are we just going to sit in the car?

But I know all too well what’s to come. I know how the story has to end.

The car springs to life. We back out. Furiously. The brake lights are an angry red in the darkness. Then we shoot forward, barreling toward the exit and our collision course with that tree.

The car fades into the distance.

And the movie cuts, like the camera was turned off.

I figure that’s the end. And I’m ready to put it aside.

I exhale. It’s over.

Suddenly the movie starts again. The camera is back on, recording. It makes a quick pan to the right, picking up something else.

Another car zips across the parking lot, flying right up behind, like it’s chasing us.

Forty-One

I rewind the video and watch the ending again. Again, and again, and again.

I study every part of the screen. But it’s impossible to see any detail. It’s a car. A dark car on a dark night. There’s no way to see the driver, to even tell the make or model. Forget about getting the license plate number.

But maybe someone else can see more. Maybe the cops.