Miki! Now!
The words reverberate in my thoughts, but I’m already moving before the unseen boy finishes barking the order. Because there’s a truck—old, rusted, going too fast—just moving into the blind curve, picking up speed and weaving side to side. The driver’s head is down; there’s a phone in his hand. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s texting.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I don’t think. I just run. My feet hit the ground, but I feel dull, sluggish, like I’m running through waist-deep water and everything in the world—including me—has slowed down to a crawl except that truck.
I’m too far away.
Faster. I need to move faster.
The truck is coming out of the curve now, doing at least double the speed limit, music blaring from the open windows.
I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, my throat already raw. The kid can’t hear me. She can’t hear me.
I run full tilt, chest heaving, terror driving me. And something else. All the anger and fear and grief I’ve been bottling up for two years bubbles to the surface, finding its release in the slim hope that I can control the outcome here, that I can reach her in time.
I’m at the sidewalk now. A single leap carries me over the grass and the curb onto the road.
My shadow falls across the girl and she looks up, her eyes going wide and her mouth rounding a perfect little O. She starts to rise. There’s a terrible shriek of tires on asphalt as the driver sees us and hits the brakes. The truck skids sideways to come at us broadside.
I dive, hands outstretched. My palms connect with the girl’s chest, and I shove her as hard as I can.
She goes flying back with a cry.
I see everything with abnormally sharp clarity, like a series of perfect snapshots capturing each millisecond. I see the girl. I see her tears. I see the blur of motion from the corner of my eye as my friends run along the sidewalk toward us. And someone else shooting past them . . . Luka.
I see the truck spinning again to come at me head-on—so close I can make out the chunks of rust on the grille—and the pavement, flat and gray, coming up to meet me. I hit hard and slide along the rough surface, layers of cloth and skin scraping away.
There’s the endless screech of the brakes and the smell of burning rubber. My head jerks up and I try to scramble out of the way. I can’t find my footing.
Terror clogs my throat.
Then there’s a hand on my arm, tight as a vise, yanking me to my feet.
Luka.
He pulls. I pull. Opposite directions. Our dance is all wrong.
The truck slams us both.
I shouldn’t be able to define each sensation, each event. But I can. I double over forward with the force of the blow. Then I’m lifted. I’m flying. Screaming. Until I hit the ground and my breath is forced out in an obscene rush.
There’s no pain. Not yet. Only shock and the cold knife of my fear.
Sound hurts my ears. My name. People are screaming my name, over and over. I want to tell them I’m okay, but my mouth won’t work, and I have no breath to lend sound to my words.
Turning my head, I see the little girl standing at the side of the road, her face streaked with tears. My friends are standing beside her, screaming, pushing at the air. I don’t understand what they’re trying to do. The roaring in my ears drowns out whatever they’re saying.
The lights flicker like someone flipped a switch, except we’re outside and there’s no switch to flip. Everything goes dark. Then light again. The truck’s right in front of me, the rusted chrome bumper stained red, like finger paint or smears of cherry juice.
I turn my head to the opposite side and see Luka, his body twisted and broken, a puddle of blood forming beneath him on the road. His eyes are open. They’re dark blue, bright and clear as an arctic lake. Like mine. I never noticed that before; I thought his eyes were brown. His lips move. I can’t hear, but I think he’s saying, “Okay.”
He’s wrong. This definitely is not okay.
I look down and feel a sort of distant horror as I see a body that is mine but not mine. My limbs are bent at odd angles. Shards of bone poke out through my skin. When I try to move, I realize that I feel no pain because I feel nothing. Nothing at all. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t move anything but my head.
I’m broken, like Luka. Broken and bloody.
The thought feels hazy, as though it ought to mean more to me than it does.
I smell cotton candy and cookies. I smell metal and raw steak.
Then I hear it again. The screaming. But it’s far away, growing fainter. It fades until I hear only the sound of my own heartbeat, growing ever slower. Slower.
Slower.
Stay still. Let it pass, the boy says in my head.
Sounds like a plan.
I wait for the next heartbeat, but it doesn’t come.
CHAPTER TWO
I OPEN MY EYES TO SEE THE BLURRED OUTLINES OF LEAVES and branches and a sky so blue it hurts. As the world tilts and drops, I curl my fingers into the long grass and hang on. The world’s still spinning, but at least if I hold on, I won’t fall off.
The grass . . . it feels wrong, but I can’t say why. Confusion rides me as I try to sit up.
“Wait. Let it pass.” A boy’s voice. Cool. Authoritative.
Familiar?
I feel like I should recognize it. I think there are all sorts of things I ought to know—would know—if the knowledge would just stop dancing away from me. But I can’t quite grab hold of it. The thoughts drift away as my vision clicks into sharp focus.
The words reverberate in my thoughts, but I’m already moving before the unseen boy finishes barking the order. Because there’s a truck—old, rusted, going too fast—just moving into the blind curve, picking up speed and weaving side to side. The driver’s head is down; there’s a phone in his hand. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s texting.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I don’t think. I just run. My feet hit the ground, but I feel dull, sluggish, like I’m running through waist-deep water and everything in the world—including me—has slowed down to a crawl except that truck.
I’m too far away.
Faster. I need to move faster.
The truck is coming out of the curve now, doing at least double the speed limit, music blaring from the open windows.
I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, my throat already raw. The kid can’t hear me. She can’t hear me.
I run full tilt, chest heaving, terror driving me. And something else. All the anger and fear and grief I’ve been bottling up for two years bubbles to the surface, finding its release in the slim hope that I can control the outcome here, that I can reach her in time.
I’m at the sidewalk now. A single leap carries me over the grass and the curb onto the road.
My shadow falls across the girl and she looks up, her eyes going wide and her mouth rounding a perfect little O. She starts to rise. There’s a terrible shriek of tires on asphalt as the driver sees us and hits the brakes. The truck skids sideways to come at us broadside.
I dive, hands outstretched. My palms connect with the girl’s chest, and I shove her as hard as I can.
She goes flying back with a cry.
I see everything with abnormally sharp clarity, like a series of perfect snapshots capturing each millisecond. I see the girl. I see her tears. I see the blur of motion from the corner of my eye as my friends run along the sidewalk toward us. And someone else shooting past them . . . Luka.
I see the truck spinning again to come at me head-on—so close I can make out the chunks of rust on the grille—and the pavement, flat and gray, coming up to meet me. I hit hard and slide along the rough surface, layers of cloth and skin scraping away.
There’s the endless screech of the brakes and the smell of burning rubber. My head jerks up and I try to scramble out of the way. I can’t find my footing.
Terror clogs my throat.
Then there’s a hand on my arm, tight as a vise, yanking me to my feet.
Luka.
He pulls. I pull. Opposite directions. Our dance is all wrong.
The truck slams us both.
I shouldn’t be able to define each sensation, each event. But I can. I double over forward with the force of the blow. Then I’m lifted. I’m flying. Screaming. Until I hit the ground and my breath is forced out in an obscene rush.
There’s no pain. Not yet. Only shock and the cold knife of my fear.
Sound hurts my ears. My name. People are screaming my name, over and over. I want to tell them I’m okay, but my mouth won’t work, and I have no breath to lend sound to my words.
Turning my head, I see the little girl standing at the side of the road, her face streaked with tears. My friends are standing beside her, screaming, pushing at the air. I don’t understand what they’re trying to do. The roaring in my ears drowns out whatever they’re saying.
The lights flicker like someone flipped a switch, except we’re outside and there’s no switch to flip. Everything goes dark. Then light again. The truck’s right in front of me, the rusted chrome bumper stained red, like finger paint or smears of cherry juice.
I turn my head to the opposite side and see Luka, his body twisted and broken, a puddle of blood forming beneath him on the road. His eyes are open. They’re dark blue, bright and clear as an arctic lake. Like mine. I never noticed that before; I thought his eyes were brown. His lips move. I can’t hear, but I think he’s saying, “Okay.”
He’s wrong. This definitely is not okay.
I look down and feel a sort of distant horror as I see a body that is mine but not mine. My limbs are bent at odd angles. Shards of bone poke out through my skin. When I try to move, I realize that I feel no pain because I feel nothing. Nothing at all. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t move anything but my head.
I’m broken, like Luka. Broken and bloody.
The thought feels hazy, as though it ought to mean more to me than it does.
I smell cotton candy and cookies. I smell metal and raw steak.
Then I hear it again. The screaming. But it’s far away, growing fainter. It fades until I hear only the sound of my own heartbeat, growing ever slower. Slower.
Slower.
Stay still. Let it pass, the boy says in my head.
Sounds like a plan.
I wait for the next heartbeat, but it doesn’t come.
CHAPTER TWO
I OPEN MY EYES TO SEE THE BLURRED OUTLINES OF LEAVES and branches and a sky so blue it hurts. As the world tilts and drops, I curl my fingers into the long grass and hang on. The world’s still spinning, but at least if I hold on, I won’t fall off.
The grass . . . it feels wrong, but I can’t say why. Confusion rides me as I try to sit up.
“Wait. Let it pass.” A boy’s voice. Cool. Authoritative.
Familiar?
I feel like I should recognize it. I think there are all sorts of things I ought to know—would know—if the knowledge would just stop dancing away from me. But I can’t quite grab hold of it. The thoughts drift away as my vision clicks into sharp focus.
