The air tastes wrong—the metallic flavor of blood mixed with something chemical. Petrol?
“No fuel leak,” Jared says as if reading my mind. “That’s exhaust you’re smelling. It’ll clear. Just keep breathing normally for me.”
Cold is seeping in from somewhere. My fingers are going numb.
“Felix, you’re shivering.” I hear rustling, movement in the darkness. “I’m going to put my jacket over you, try not to move.”
Something warm and heavy drapes across my chest and arms. It smells like coffee and something woodsy—cedar maybe? The warmth is immediate, seeping into my frozen fingers.
“Better?”
“Mm.” Even that small sound takes effort.
“Felix, can you squeeze my hand?” His fingers wrap around mine—the left side. I try. “Brilliant. Now, the right?”
My right hand feels disconnected, like it’s floating somewhere beside me. I concentrate, willing my fingers to move.
“I’m…trying.”
“That’s okay. You’re doing great.” His voice stays calm, but I catch something underneath. “I need to check your breathing more closely. Just relax.”
His hand rests lightly on my chest. I feel him counting silently, the weight of his palm rising and falling. Then his fingers move to my neck, pressing gently under my jaw.
“Heart’s racing a bit. Let’s try to slow that down. Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose…hold…and out through your mouth.”
I try to follow, but my nose is clogged with what I’m pretty sure is blood. The breathing comes out ragged, wrong.
“Mouth breathing is fine,” he says quickly. “Whatever works.”
We breathe together in the darkness. In. Out. In. Out. His jacket smells like safety.
“Can you tell me what day it is, Felix?”
“The day…I decided…to become a crash-test dummy?” I rasp out.
Jared gives a startled laugh, and it seems to echo through the car.
My sense of humor seems to have survived the crash.
History might debate whether that is a good or a bad thing.
“Besides that day,” he says. “Do you know what day of the week it is?”
I think hard. Thoughts slip away like fish in dark water. There was…arguing. Carlos’s face, but it keeps sliding out of focus.
“Take your time,” Jared says. “No rush.”
Friday. Something about Friday. A suit. Drinks. The memories come in fragments, not sentences.
Carlos’s work drinks. That was Friday night—he was in his suit. And he kept cutting me off every time I tried to speak. His hand on my arm, forcefully steering me away from conversations with his colleagues, scowling whenever I spoke up, like I was just a well-dressed accessory, there for decoration and nothing else.
Frustration floods back, surprisingly clear. How Carlos certainly seems to value what my mouth does in other contexts, but not the speaking part.
We’d fought about it on Saturday morning at brunch. I’d stormed out to go for a drive to clear my head.
“Satur…” The word catches. I swallow, taste metal again. “Saturday. Was going for a drive because of a fight with…boyfriend.”
I try to straighten, but the metal pressing into my chest quickly reminds me I’m trapped. Pain flares down my left side.
