No, can’t isn’t an acceptable answer. Iwill.
Once I dive beneath the surface, it takes a moment for my vision to adjust. The tail lights help, their glow breaking through the thick darkness. As I close in on the rear window, I say a silent prayer.
Please. Let her still be alive.
And then.
I see her.
Wedged in the backseat, pounding at the window with one hand.
Alive.
Moving.
The instant she spots me, there’s a flash of recognition.
I knock on the glass, signaling to her. I gesture at the backseat headrest, motioning for her to remove it. I’m not going to be able to get the doors open, not with the water pressing on them. But if she can use the metal rods from the headrest to break the glass…
At first, she frowns at me in confusion. I motion to the headrest again, then mimic myself jabbing it at the side window. After a moment, she shakes her head.
Shit. Is she concussed? Can she understand what I’m telling her to do?
My lungs are starting to burn, but there’s no way I’m leaving her.
Hazel holds her hand out to me, unfurling her fingers to display a small yellow tool in her palm. Then she wraps her fingers around it and slams the tool against the glass.
Tiny cracks appear. Just a tiny spiderweb of them, but enough to make me realize what she has.
It’s one of those multi-tools that’s supposed to help you escape from a car. I’ve seen them online—little devices with a spring-loaded punch end and a blade that’s supposed to be able to slice through a seatbelt.
Hope sparks inside me.
If she can break the glass, I can get her out. Swim her to the surface.
Hazel hits the windshield again, and more cracks spread across it.
Hope fans to a flame.
If she can weaken the glass just a little more…
On the third blow, the cracks radiate outward, transforming the glass into hundreds of tiny fractures. Hazel cocks her arm back to hit the windshield again, but I wave my hand at her to stop. Then I motion for her to cover her face, and once she does it, I turn so I can kick the glass in.
The water diminishes the strength of my blow, but I refuse to let that stop me.
I kick at the windshield hard—once, twice, three times—before it finally gives way.
Water rushes into the car, and immediately it starts to sink faster.
But there’s a gaping hole in the windshield now, and that’s all I need.
Heart pounding, lungs straining, I lunge forward and grasp one of Hazel’s outstretched hands.
As I pull her free, she tries to help me, kicking hard and paddling with her free arm.
A flicker of a thought strikes me.
She’s so incredibly strong.
