We hang up, and I’m dropping the phone into the cup holder when something darts into the road. A brown blur, flying across the windshield. I stomp the brakes and give a jerk to the wheel, and the tires Chet’s been hollering at me to replace for months now lose traction on the wet asphalt. The car slides sideways, hurtling me toward an incline that will drop me ten feet, maybe more, into a creek. I overcorrect, hands slapping at the wheel, then overcorrect the other way, but it’s too much for the old Civic. The car lurches into a spin, flinging me around like a fairground ride. After five or six turns, my back fender connects with something solid, and a loud, metallic chunk slams me back into my seat, snapping my head sideways. My skull slams into tempered glass, and everything goes deathly silent.

No, not silent. There’s the steady patter of rain, the wind in the tops of the trees, another rumble of thunder. And heavy breathing—mine.

I sit very still for a moment, taking stock. My head hurts, and my chest where the seat belt tried to cut me in half. I press a hand to my lower belly, but there’s nothing. No pain, no cramping. Other than the whack to the head, I think I’m fine.

My car, however, not so much. I twist around, looking out the smashed back window on the passenger’s side. I’ve landed flush against a tree, a pine at the edge of the road. The impact folded a deep dent in the Civic and stuck a branch through the glass, letting in the sharp tang of sap and green wood and rain. I twist the keys, but nothing happens. The engine’s dead.

I look around for my phone, which in the second or third spin flew from the cup holder. I search the passenger’s seat and console, stick my hand between the seats. I’m feeling around by my feet when, suddenly, the windshield lights up. Headlights gleaming in the gushing water.

Not Paul. Please don’t let it be Paul.

I freeze, peeking over the dash.

A flash of relief at the sight of Micah’s truck, followed by trepidation. Micah is one of Paul’s best friends. How much does he know? He rolls to a stop by my front fender, throws open the door and slides out, hitting the dirt at a jog. I eye him through the cracked windshield with suspicion.

He yanks open my door. “Are you okay? Jesus. Can you move?” Already the rain has soaked his hair, his clothes, splashing from him onto me.