Katie

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Ringing.

I hear ringing. Time to wake up. I have a final today, so I should get moving. I go to silence my alarm, feeling for my phone with my eyes closed.

My fingers touch something that is smooth and then not smooth. Sharp. It stings. That's weird.

I have to concentrate hard to get my eyes to work, and it takes longer than it should because the ringing is so distracting, especially now that it's joined by a high-pitched wail. If I can just find my phone and turn off my alarm. I want to go back to sleep; I'm so tired. But my final.

What a strange dream this is.

I finally succeed in opening my heavy eyelids, and I'm not in my bed. My phone is not ringing.

I am in my car. The ringing is in my ears. The wailing is in my throat.

It takes me a few blinks to truly orient myself. Car. Car accident. I have to shove an airbag away from my face. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can hear Seth laughing in disbelief that they still work (like he'd let me drive this car if they didn't).

Seth. Seth. Seth. I need him. It hurts. What hurts, I can't quite say. Everything. Is he hurt? I look to the passenger seat, needing to make sure he's okay, but Seth is not there.

Jordan is.

What the hell happened? Why did we crash?

I stare at him, and I beg my brain to remember what my body clearly does. My pulse is racing; my muscles are tense. My throat is hoarse and dry. The memory is nearly there, if I can just—

His finger twitches, and the clarity is razor-sharp. Cuts like glass.

You're so special, Katie. Hands. I know you want me. Grabbing. Get off. Squeezing. No. Tires squealing. Metal crunching. Glass breaking. Music playing.

Stomach churning, hands shaking, ears ringing.

I fumble for my seatbelt. Somewhere in the part of my brain that's still processing, I know I've sliced my finger on a piece of windshield glass that's glinting all over the cab.

My head hurts.

I have no idea if I'm okay – I'm alive, I think (I mean, I don't see anybody that looks particularly holy and glowy). But I'm not sticking around to find out before Jordan can grab for me again, finish what he started.

It takes a significant amount of force to get my door open. I allow myself just enough space to squeeze through.

An oncoming car pulls to the shoulder so abruptly their wheel wells smoke, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air and making me go queasy.

"Oh, my God! Harold, call an ambulance!" A middle-aged woman is spilling out of the passenger seat, rushing over. Every time I blink, she's closer.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asks, taking a tentative step toward me. I think I flinch, because she slows her approach. My face is wet, and my eyes are burning. Ow, my head. "You're bleeding."

I lift a shaky hand to my forehead, and when I retract it, it's warm and red and sticky. I can't feel the cut, but I think I should.

Huh. Weird.

"What's your name?" she asks softly. "Do you know where you are?"

What is my name? Seth. No, that's not right. Just you and me. Just Seth and—

"Katie," I choke out through sobs, although it sounds more like a question than a fact. Am I Katie? I'm crying. When did that start?

"Kaylee?" the woman asks.

I suck in oxygen and rain. "Katie," I say again, slower, forcing the syllables out as clearly as I can manage.

I attempt to take a deep breath. "I have to—" sob "I have a test—" gurgle "I have to go." My legs are unstable, too weak to hold me up any longer as I try to walk toward the direction of campus. I wobble.

The woman rushes forward, grabbing my elbow. "Oh, dear." She turns to the car. "Harold! Tell them to come faster!" I'm grateful she turned away to screech at the driver, because it's piercing.

My head hurts. I try to say it out loud, but the words won't form on my tongue.

I'm not sure if the ringing in my ears is sirens or my brain or my panic, but I flick my eyes back to the car to see if Jordan's conscious yet. Is he dead? Did I kill him?

The woman doesn't miss it. "Two ambulances! There's someone else."

Does Jordan deserve an ambulance?

My dad's reprimand is in my ear. Just because we think someone doesn't deserve kindness doesn't mean we get to withhold it. That's not what Jesus would do.

I shake my head hard and the world goes fuzzy and blurred. Shut up, Dad. Jesus didn't get molested.

The thought (or maybe the head trauma?) makes bile rise in my throat, and I vomit right on the feet of the nice woman who's helped me. Oops. Sorry, I try to say. My mouth still isn't working right.

"Oh dear," she murmurs, rubbing a soft circle on the middle of my back. I miss my mom.

The man is still on the phone, but he rushes forward. I must flinch again, because he also slows. He holds out a towel. I think he wants me to take it. "They said to put it to your head." He offers it again, waving it like a flag. It's blue. Faded. Torn.

He tells me I could pass out if I don't. I don't want to pass out right now. Seth's not here to scoop me up, and I'd feel too vulnerable with Jordan so close. Too exposed.

Everything's going to change. I have pictures of Jordan on my camera; he has pictures of me on his. What will Leslie say? Rich?

Seth?

Seth. Seth. Seth. Please, Seth. I need you.

The sirens grow louder, but it's not an ambulance. I see a police cruiser. It's not Seth, but it's the next best thing.

Charlie spills out. "Katie?" he calls, and although I can hardly think straight, I don't miss the disbelief in his tone. I witness something I can't recall ever seeing before – Charlie running.

"What happened?" he yells, surveying the damage as he closes the distance between us swiftly. I haven't looked at my car, but Charlie winces, and that's enough for me.

It takes a deliberate effort not to flinch from Charlie, too. He reaches for my shoulders before he can touch them, and I practically melt into his arms.

Safety.

Relief floods my veins, warring with the adrenaline pumping through me. I'm dizzy. I'm tired. I'm wired. I'd love to see my cortisol levels now. I giggle to myself at the joke, the laugh gurgling and half-caught in my throat.

Charlie holds me loosely, but I want him to crush me to his chest, cage me in his arms. I may fall apart if he doesn't. "Are you okay, sweetheart?" he asks. My eyes are squeezed shut, my face buried in his chest. "And your friend."

Jordan Johnson is not my friend.

I hear shuffling behind me, but don't bother lifting my face from Charlie's shirt. His uniform is pressed clean and smells like laundry detergent and musk. It's a nice smell, a dad smell. I miss my dad, too.

Miss Seth. Want Seth. Need Seth.

"There was a deer," Jordan groans, apparently having removed himself from the car. Based on his tone he's telling me to go along with it, that it's the only option he sees.

My body tightens at his voice, and I think I start sobbing again (if I ever stopped). I'm not in control of my body – I used my last ounce of it to wreck. To stay conscious. To pray for Seth to come and save me. To get out of the car.

I'm heavy and sore and sparking and electric, and I can feel every one of my heartbeats banging against my skin. I'm sure my head would still be gushing if that man hadn't offered me the towel, which Charlie keeps pressed to my head even as I cling to him. My fingers burn from slicing them on the glass, but I keep rubbing against my palm over and over, wincing at the sting each and every time.

This happened, and this is real, and I am not dreaming, the pain tells me.

I'm not sure what I feel like in Charlie's arms, if he feels me stiffen, or if he's just good at sniffing out bullshit. But when his eyes return to me after having surveyed Jordan, his grip tightens, too. "Is that what happened, Katie?"

I run my fingers across my palm again, trying to gather my brain into enough pieces to form coherent thoughts.

Fight or flight. Sink or swim.

Ugh, my head. The ringing.

I blink twice. Pull back. Fingers across palm. Deep breath.

Big feelings. Do it anyway.

"No."