“No,” I say, trying to pull it away from her.

Behind me, more cars have pulled over and people are running toward us, closing in. I just have to keep the gun away from her for another minute.

“I can’t do it,” she says, crying and fighting me for control. “Just let go of me, Remy, just let me go!”

“Don’t do this!”

We struggle, the gun between us.

I hear someone shouting behind me.

Only a few more seconds, I think.

And that’s when it goes off.

65.

Pain explodes through me as I slip away from Elise and hit the ground with a thud. I clutch my left shoulder, crying out. It’s excruciating. I can’t breathe. The world closes in around me—I can’t see, can’t hear.

I am pain and pain is me.

“Remy, Remy,” Elise says, but her voice is so, so far away.

I exist in a strange in-between state, coming in and out of focus. When I open my eyes, the sun overhead is blinding. It takes me a moment to realize it’s night, not day, and I’m no longer lying outside on the grass but inside of an ambulance, strapped to a gurney and staring up at the bright white lights.

I have one last thought before I’m pulled under.

Our wounds don’t make us special. They only mean we’ve been hurt.

Suffering isn’t romantic. It’s just painful.

FRIDAY // SEPTEMBER 1 // DAY 357

66.

When I open my eyes, I’m completely alone in a hospital room. Vases of flowers fill my bedside table and line the windowsill. The pain in my shoulder is dull but persistent.

“She’s awake,” someone says, and I look up to find Christian standing by the door.

All of them walk toward me and it feels like I’m in a dream. Mom, Dad, Christian—they surround my bed and ask me how I am. No one is arguing, no one is angry or sad, only relieved.

The bullet hit my left shoulder, far away from any major arteries, they tell me. It was only a 9mm and I was very lucky, they say. I was in surgery for six hours and might need to have another operation later. I’m looking at a few months of physical therapy, and I might not regain full range of motion in that shoulder, but I’ll be okay. I’ll survive.

“The doctors are optimistic since you’re so young,” Mom tells me. Then she launches into a long and detailed medical explanation of what the surgeons did, how I now have hardware inside me, pieces of metal I’ll always have to carry within me. I think of Jack and his shoulder, of the way trauma changes you forever.

“How are you feeling?” Dad asks, pouring a cup of water for me. I try to drink but can’t, feeling dizzy and nauseated from the pain meds.

Lucky. They keep telling me how lucky I was, but I don’t feel particularly lucky. I reach for my shoulder with my right hand. Even the lightest pressure is excruciating, leaving me gasping in pain.