you alone in the
house all night. Call me the minute you get inside so I know you
got home all right.”
The walk signal comes to life, and I step off
the curb into a growing river of run-off, feeling the first hint of
dampness in my socks. So much for waterproofing.
“Mom, I’ll be fi—”
A high-pitched screech followed by the
sickening crunch of metal draws my attention. Turning, I see a red
two-door car spun out crookedly in the middle of the intersection
half a football field to my right. A dark-blue sedan is plowed into
its rear fender. I can’t figure out why the driver of the red car
would have slammed on his brakes there of all places.
Then I see it.
A super-sized silver pickup, no headlights.
It’s right on top of me. My eyes lock with the driver’s
heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes, and I see a snarled image of empty
beer bottles on an oak bar. There’s another man—the
bartender—shaking his head. The next second my own image is
reflected back on me. It’s blurred by the man’s drunkenness.
That’s when I realize: he’s not going to
stop.
But my life doesn’t flash before my eyes.
Instead, for some reason, I think I have enough time to step back
onto the curb before I get flattened. It’s an illusion, though—one
of those tricks your brain plays right before you’re going to die.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
The grille of the pickup truck is inches from
my face when something wraps around my waist. I look up at Ever
Casey’s face. Then I feel a shockwave. At the edge of my vision, I
see the truck skittering away like a piece of paper being blown by
a strong gust of wind. Everything goes black, and it feels like the
entire world has stopped spinning, throwing gravity off
balance.
My chest spasms, and I gasp for air. I’m so
sick to my stomach that I don’t even care about the pickup truck.
And that’s when reality hits me full force. I’ve already been
hit.
I’m dead .
How strange. I had always been afraid of
blackness, nothing—losing my conscious mind. And here I am thinking
… about being dead. A rude voice interrupts my contemplation.
“You’re not dead,” it hisses acerbically.
I frown at the familiar cynicism. My vision
is still black, and it takes a second to figure out that my eyes
are squeezed shut and my hands are balled into fists. I blink,
which makes my stomach pitch with a wave of nausea. I close my eyes
again, letting my head continue to spin in the darkness.
“Are you injured? Can you move?” the voice
asks.
“Um,” I mumble, trying to place the
overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
The voice is civil now, but clipped in a way
that implies haste. I shake my head, not even sure which question
I’m responding to. I don’t think I’m hurt, just sick to my stomach.
I open my eyes again, relieved not to feel quite so nauseous this
time. I take an extended moment to study the pair of jeans in front
of me. In the background I hear the wail of sirens. They’re getting
louder. My eyes drift downward. There’s wet concrete beneath me.
I’m sitting on a curb. And my jeans are soaked through. A hand
grasps my elbow, and before I know it, I’m standing.
Please don’t throw up, Wren. Anything but
that , I plead silently.
Turning my head to the right, I finally see
the source of the sirens. A fire engine, followed by an ambulance.
And there’s a pickup truck—the one that should have hit me—crunched
into a lamppost across the street. I watch as a dazed man stumbles
from the truck, a grisly gash leaking blood across his cheek.
Before I can straighten out my thoughts, I’m abruptly being lowered
into the passenger seat of a black sedan. What worries me more is
that I’m too dizzy to question it. Instead, I watch in fascination
as an arm reaches across me and clicks my seatbelt into place.
The car door whooshes shut, and I grimace at
the smell of the expensive leather that I’m probably ruining.
Everything is suddenly too silent, with the
house all night. Call me the minute you get inside so I know you
got home all right.”
The walk signal comes to life, and I step off
the curb into a growing river of run-off, feeling the first hint of
dampness in my socks. So much for waterproofing.
“Mom, I’ll be fi—”
A high-pitched screech followed by the
sickening crunch of metal draws my attention. Turning, I see a red
two-door car spun out crookedly in the middle of the intersection
half a football field to my right. A dark-blue sedan is plowed into
its rear fender. I can’t figure out why the driver of the red car
would have slammed on his brakes there of all places.
Then I see it.
A super-sized silver pickup, no headlights.
It’s right on top of me. My eyes lock with the driver’s
heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes, and I see a snarled image of empty
beer bottles on an oak bar. There’s another man—the
bartender—shaking his head. The next second my own image is
reflected back on me. It’s blurred by the man’s drunkenness.
That’s when I realize: he’s not going to
stop.
But my life doesn’t flash before my eyes.
Instead, for some reason, I think I have enough time to step back
onto the curb before I get flattened. It’s an illusion, though—one
of those tricks your brain plays right before you’re going to die.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
The grille of the pickup truck is inches from
my face when something wraps around my waist. I look up at Ever
Casey’s face. Then I feel a shockwave. At the edge of my vision, I
see the truck skittering away like a piece of paper being blown by
a strong gust of wind. Everything goes black, and it feels like the
entire world has stopped spinning, throwing gravity off
balance.
My chest spasms, and I gasp for air. I’m so
sick to my stomach that I don’t even care about the pickup truck.
And that’s when reality hits me full force. I’ve already been
hit.
I’m dead .
How strange. I had always been afraid of
blackness, nothing—losing my conscious mind. And here I am thinking
… about being dead. A rude voice interrupts my contemplation.
“You’re not dead,” it hisses acerbically.
I frown at the familiar cynicism. My vision
is still black, and it takes a second to figure out that my eyes
are squeezed shut and my hands are balled into fists. I blink,
which makes my stomach pitch with a wave of nausea. I close my eyes
again, letting my head continue to spin in the darkness.
“Are you injured? Can you move?” the voice
asks.
“Um,” I mumble, trying to place the
overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
The voice is civil now, but clipped in a way
that implies haste. I shake my head, not even sure which question
I’m responding to. I don’t think I’m hurt, just sick to my stomach.
I open my eyes again, relieved not to feel quite so nauseous this
time. I take an extended moment to study the pair of jeans in front
of me. In the background I hear the wail of sirens. They’re getting
louder. My eyes drift downward. There’s wet concrete beneath me.
I’m sitting on a curb. And my jeans are soaked through. A hand
grasps my elbow, and before I know it, I’m standing.
Please don’t throw up, Wren. Anything but
that , I plead silently.
Turning my head to the right, I finally see
the source of the sirens. A fire engine, followed by an ambulance.
And there’s a pickup truck—the one that should have hit me—crunched
into a lamppost across the street. I watch as a dazed man stumbles
from the truck, a grisly gash leaking blood across his cheek.
Before I can straighten out my thoughts, I’m abruptly being lowered
into the passenger seat of a black sedan. What worries me more is
that I’m too dizzy to question it. Instead, I watch in fascination
as an arm reaches across me and clicks my seatbelt into place.
The car door whooshes shut, and I grimace at
the smell of the expensive leather that I’m probably ruining.
Everything is suddenly too silent, with the
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