Page 5

“Am I impaled on something?”

“No, no, no. Just, well … Yes?”

I must be in shock, because I have this weird urge to laugh. Or maybe just to reassure him, because he looks so freaked out while he tries very hard not to freak me out.

“Where is the stick?” I say.

“Your shoulder. It’s just … through— No, not through. It’s … You’re just stuck.” Another squeeze shut of his eyes. Refocusing, and when he comes back his face is firm, resolute. “It’s safe for me to pull you off it. But it’ll hurt. More than it already does.”

“I can’t feel it.”

“Well, that’ll change.”

Hands grip my upper arms. “I’m going to count down from three, okay? Three, two—”

He pulls on the count of two, and pain rips through my shoulder. Before I can protest, he hoists me up over his arms and strides to the side of the road, where he sets me down and lowers to one knee beside me.

“I have a first-aid kit,” he says. “I’m going to leave you here and go get it.”

“I can—” I start to rise, but he gently stops me.

“Please don’t move. Just let me check you out first.”

I squint. “Where’s the ambulance?”

He pauses, and then winces. “I’m not here on a call. I’m the asshole who hit you.”

“Oh.” I guess that makes sense—he’s dressed in jeans and a gray hoodie. Then I repeat his words to myself. The asshole who hit you.

“No, it was my fault,” I say. “I didn’t put on my hazards when I got out. My dad would be mortified—he taught me better than that.”

The briefest, strained smile. “Let’s just blame the storm then. And that tree.”

I motion to my impaled shoulder. “Oh, I’m definitely blaming that tree.”

The smile touches his eyes, and he makes a move as if to squeeze my hand and then stops himself and rises. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

I lie on the roadside, rain pelting my face, and I stare up into a cloudy night, the barest hint of light edging those clouds. The light isn’t the white-yellow of the moon, though. It’s a swirl of red and orange, like fire in the sky.

The man’s footsteps set the ground quaking as he runs back to me, kit in hand.

“Do you see that?” I say when he asks if I’m okay. I point up. “Fire in the sky.”

“Fire…?” He curses, and his hand touches my forehead as he peers into my eyes. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Ellie.”

“Okay, Ellie, my name’s Henry. I think you’re in shock. Just focus on me, okay? I really am sorry. I didn’t see your car. It was dark, and your taillights were out.” He rubs a hand over his broad face. “That sounds like an accusation. Sorry. I should have seen your car anyway. It was just—just there all of a sudden.”

“We’re blaming the tree, right?”

That strained smile. “Right. Okay, Ellie, I want to look at that shoulder, but first tell me where it hurts.”

“My shoulder. That’s all … Oh, wait. My nose. It might be broken from the airbag. Also I think I got scraped and cut by branches. Nothing really hurts too much, though. That’s shock, huh?”

“It is. Just stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.” He looks up. “Which is hard to do when rain is pouring on your face.”

“That seems fine, too. Shock?”