“Come on,” I mutter through clenched teeth, adjusting the wheel and keeping my attention on the traffic.
The light changes for the cross traffic, and cars begin to accelerate. One driver hits his brakes, nose dipping, his face a pale blur through the windshield as I fly past his hood by mere feet. I hear his horn and the scrape of tires as he swerves away from me.
I keep my horn down, the sound now an extension of my heartbeat. I aim for the far side of the intersection, scanning for the safest exit line. My thoughts move fast and clinical, labeling variables. A pedestrian on the corner near the coffee shop is stepping off the curb with headphones on. Two cars are attempting to clear the light. A truck is in the right lane, accelerating late, its grill rising into view.
I cut left to avoid the pedestrian, my hands forcing the wheel into a hard arc. The car responds with a sickening skid, traction breaking, and the back end swinging. The pedestrian looks up at the last possible second, eyes wide, and stumbles backward, arms flailing for balance.
My breath catches in my throat, and I keep moving. The next intersection appears too quickly. Another red light. Another stream of vehicles. I slam the horn again, even though it’s already blaring, the sound warping into frantic pulses as my hand shakes against it.
I yank the parking brake again, harder this time, ignoring the warning in my mind about locking the rear wheels. The car fishtails, the rear end snapping out. I correct, then overcorrect. The world tilts. The lines on the road smear into white streaks.
A truck enters the intersection from my right, large and unavoidable, its tires rolling slowly and heavily. I can’t stop. I can’t clear it safely. I choose impact.
I crank the wheel left, aiming away from the truck and toward the curb and parked cars where the collateral is metal, not a human body. The car bounces over the curb with a jolt that rattles my teeth. My hands strain against the wheel as the suspension screams in protest.
A parked car fills my windshield. There’s no room to adjust. The crash hits like a concussion through the vehicle's frame. Metal shrieks. Glass explodes. My head snaps forward, then back, then to the side as the airbags detonate with a violent punch, the powdery smell of propellant filling my nose and mouth. The seatbelt locks hard across my shoulder and ribs, stealing my breath. Pain blooms across my forehead and cheek in quick, hot pulses. The world turns into a roar, then into a muffled ringing, then into silence.
My hands slide off the steering wheel. My fingers feel distant. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The last thing I see is the windshield fractured into a spiderweb of white lines, the morning light broken into pieces. Then everything goes black.
Voices drag me back first. Not words I can place, just the cadence of urgency, layered with the familiar tones of a hospital environment. The smell hits next. Antiseptic. Alcohol wipes. That faint metallic edge that never fully leaves an ER.
My eyelids feel glued together, but I force them open. White ceiling tiles. Fluorescent lights. Curtain tracks. A monitor to my left with a green line crawling across the screen in consistent peaks. A blood pressure cuff around my upper arm, squeezing rhythmically.
I attempt to lift my head, and pain slices through my forehead, down the side of my face, and into my jaw. My stomach rolls.
“Ro, don’t move,” a voice orders, firm and close.
Ethan.
The sound of his voice makes the room snap into focus. My brother stands at the foot of the bed, still in his EMT uniform, his navy shirt wrinkled and damp with sweat. His sandy-brown hair sticks up like he has run his hands through it too many times. His eyes are bright, wide, and fixed on my face, his chest rising and falling as if he ran up the stairs two at a time.
He grips the bed rail with both hands, his fingers white where they wrap around the metal. His whole body holds tension, as if he’s keeping himself in place by force.
“Rowan,” he repeats, softer this time, as if volume might break me. “Look at me. Tell me you can see me.”
“I can see you,” I manage, my voice rough, and my throat dry. The words scratch on the way out.
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping near his cheekbone. He leans closer, his eyes scanning my face like he’s doing his own assessment. “You scared the hell out of me.”
I try to swallow and regret it immediately. Pain tugs at my cheek. My tongue finds the edge of a split in my lip.
“There’s a gash on your forehead,” he adds, his voice straining. “Your cheek is cut too. You hit those cars pretty hard.”
I blink slowly, trying to get my bearings. The room is a trauma bay. It’s clear from the equipment, the layout, and the sounds beyond the curtains. I can hear a distant overhead page and the roll of a gurney passing in the hallway. The fact that I recognize it all feels surreal, like waking up in your own house after someone else rearranged the furniture.
A woman moves into my line of sight, pushing the curtain aside with her hip.
Lila.
Her hair is pulled back, but a few dark curls cling to the sides of her face. Her expression is focused, but the tension around hereyes gives away how worried she is. She’s wearing gloves and holding gauze in one hand, a suture kit open on the tray beside her.
“Welcome back,” she tells me, her voice light in a way that attempts comfort without stepping on seriousness. “You look like you lost a fight with a steering wheel.”
I attempt a breath that might be a laugh and wince instead.
Lila steps closer, her eyes scanning my injuries. “I’m going to clean this up. It’ll sting.”
“Do it,” I reply, trying to sound normal and match her calm.
