I can’t do anything but turn the wheel. Pump the brake.
And pray, but it sounds more like cursing.
But it works because we stop moving.
Her hand slaps the hood of the car, and she disappears.
“Holy sh— Dude! She’s— You hit her!”
“I—no!” Throwing it into park, I jump out of the car. “She shouldn’t have been standing in the middle of the road!”
“You shouldn’t have hit her!” Basher scrambled out the car door, his phone in hand.
“I came around the corner and she was just there. She—” This is bad. This is really bad. This is potentially the end of my career as a racecar driver, bad.
I hit someone.
Only—it’s not someone.
“Sophie! It’s Sophie Laz,” Basher cries like I don’t already recognize the thick dark hair and the always smiling face.
Only she’s not smiling.
Sophie’s face is white and set as she tries to pull herself upright from her position in front of the car. Not under the car. Not with the car at all on top of her.
I hiss with relief.
“Don’t move,” I shout, mainly because I’m glad she seems alright. Or as alright as you can be after being plowed down by an out-of-control yellow Charger. I drop to my knees. “I’m so sorry.”
Basher is right beside me. “Are you alright?” He grabs her hand.
“I… I think so. I just need to get up.”
I put a hand on her chest to stop her, and then realize where my hand is and snatch it away. “No, don’t move.”
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Basheradds.
“Are there even ambulances here?”
“Of course.” Basher looks at Sophie. “There are, aren’t there?”
Battle Harbour is a small town. It’s a valid question. “Yes, but I’m fine. I don’t need—” Before we can stop her, Sophie manages to get a leg around her and lifts herself off the ground, but she collapses as soon as she puts weight on her leg. “Ow.”
I don’t know what to do with my hands. With Sophie. What do I do? “It could be broken,” I say with real worry in my voice.
Of course I’m worried. I hit someone.
Fenella is going to kill me. FluxFuel is going to kill me. There will be no FluxFuel because whatever progress I made, I’ve just thrown out the window.
My father is going to kill me.
I hit Sophie.
“Her back could be broken.” Basher has his phone to his ear. “I can’t get service.”
“Dead zone,” Sophie explains. What I can see of her face between the toque and the scarf is still pale, but she’s speaking normally. She’s sitting up.
She doesn’t seem to be broken, and this time I huff with relief, white clouds of warm air blowing in her face.
