The ground meets me all at once, and I try to remember to roll, like I’ve seen people do in videos. I think I do it—I manage to protect my head and neck, anyway—but hitting the pavement feels like it takes minutes, not seconds, and on impact, I feel broken and singed. I’m sure some skin has been ripped off of me in chunks.

I hear Harlowe’s Volvo speed off. Panting, my cheek resting on the rough asphalt, my heart beating a million miles a minute, I take stock of my body. The pain is crippling, roiling through me in waves. Gingerly, I inspect the damage. My jeans are torn at both knees, and my wrists feel sprained when I move them, likely from bracing myself with my hands when I first hit the road. There are a few deep scrapes visible through the tears in my jeans, but they don’t look nearly as bad as I thought they would. My hands are intact. Nothing feels particularly broken. And the pain that, moments ago, was all-consuming is already starting to dissipate, perhaps from shock or adrenaline. I might need pharmas once my body realizes what happened to it. But I’ll deal with that later, back on campus. I can get my cuts mended by the school nurse. One on my right knee looks particularly gnarly. I hope I don’t need stitches.

I hear the sound of screeching. Curious, I sit up. I’m able to do that, at least, which strikes me as a good sign—I can’t be that hurt if I can move my body to a sitting position. And then I see it: Harlowe’s Volvo. Making a U-turn in the middle of the road and racing back toward me.

I brace myself, then press my tender palms to the ground, giving myself leverage so I can straighten my legs and stand up.

Harlowe’s stopped the Volvo inches from me, on the shoulder of the road. The driver’s-side door opens, and she gets out, not even bothering to shut her car door.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demands, and for the first time tonight, she actually looks shaken.

“I think I’m hurt,” I say, furrowing my brow. “My leg, it feels broken.” I take a halting step toward Harlowe and the car, almost keeling over. Harlowe reaches out a hand to steady me, and that’s when I push her out of my way.

Harlowe falls backward, and in that moment I’m able to slip through the open car door, slam it closed behind me, and start the ignition. I see the look of shock on her face and remember, in the nick of time, to hit the lock button on the door—before she can follow me in.