My name. My name? God, it hurt to think. I shook my head, the idea of having to formulate one single word was too much to bear. I saw a flash of metal to my right and tried to turn my head. They were cutting something; the sound of the metal blades hitting each other tore through my mind. Maddy’s side of the car was dented in, dirt and leaves ground into the thousands of spiderweb cracks that laced the window.
I shivered as the frigid night air hit me. The passenger-side door was gone, two gloved hands tossing it aside in a hasty effort to get inside … to get to Maddy. Her body was slumped forward, resting at an odd angle against the dashboard. Hurried words, none of which I understood, echoed through the car as they gently eased her back against the seat, her head lolling to one side. Somebody reached for her neck and then her wrist before shaking his head and backing out of the car. If I had the strength to speak, I would’ve yelled at them to leave her be, to let her stay in the safe confines of the car, not to move her into the dark, wet night.
Maddy? I whispered in my mind. Her eyes were open and she was staring at me. Why didn’t she blink? Why didn’t she move?
She didn’t fight, didn’t cry out in pain when they pulled her out of her seat. She lay there boneless in their arms, a spot of wetness rolling off her cheek. I followed the drop of water to the floor and saw one of my shoes lying on the dirty floor mat by my phone. Where was the other?
“Stay with me,” the man said. “Can you tell me your name?”
I didn’t care about my name. I wanted to know where they were taking Maddy and why she looked so quiet and cold. I heard the man talking to me, demanding that I answer him. I blocked him out, focusing my energy on calling my sister back.
“Maddy,” I whispered, hoping she’d hear me. Hoping she’d acknowledge me, say something, anything.
“There you go. Good. Now, do you know where you are?”
I tried to shake my head, but it hurt to move. “No,” I managed to whisper.
“That’s okay,” he said. “We’re going to move you now. You’re going to be fine.”
“Maddy,” I repeated as his hands reached out for me. I didn’t fight it this time. I didn’t struggle to stay there despite his demands. I simply let go.
6
It hurt. It hurt to move. It hurt to think. It hurt to feel, but I did it anyway. I struggled for a sense of place, of time, but there were no familiar voices, only noise. Constant machinelike thrumming.
I was no longer cold. In fact, I was hot. Sweltering hot. Through my confusion, I could hear a beeping. I homed in on that rhythmic sound until I could count in time with the beats.
With each beep came a recollection, a flash so jumbled and terrifying that I screamed inside my head, begging to be set free. The rain, the spinning of the tires, and the smell … the caustic, burning smell of gas. The hail coating the road, blurring the lane lines. Me jerking the wheel. The screech of brakes. The tree and the sound of our panicked cries as the branch shattered the windshield.
I could still hear the music playing on the radio, the annoying jingle for the local car wash circling in my brain like a rusted-out hamster wheel. I wanted it to stop, wanted to claw out my ears, my burning throat, and my hiccuping mind with a spoon.
I tried to call for help, but no sound came out. My hands grasped at the empty air as I tried to pull myself from the memories, from the smell of blood and burned rubber and the sharp sting of glass shards embedded in my skin. I could feel my arms and legs. They were tight, as if someone had tied a rope around them and pulled, to be cruel.
Something snapped, my body and mind realigning themselves in one horrifying jolt. I found my voice and cried out, stuck in an imaginary world so vivid, so toxic, that I would have sworn it was real.
“Hey, calm down. You’re alive. You’re safe.”
Oh thank God. I knew that voice. It was distantly familiar.