As if I could get anything the way he could—with ease. He’d been so accomplished. So big in life. And still big in …
Mors, mortis, morti, mortem, morte …
Declining “death” didn’t help me, either. I blink into the darkness, barely able to make out the next light about a half mile away. It’s green, I think, but it might be yellow by the time I get there. I hate making that decision, never sure if I’ll make it through the intersection in one piece.
Listen to you! You sound just like her.
Lights flash behind me, the high, bright halogens of an expensive SUV. Cursing softly, I swerve into the right lane to let it by, the wipers clearing the glass just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of one of those stupid stick-family decals on the back of the SUV. Why do people insist on advertising how perfect their little family is? Mom, Dad, soccer boy, and ballerina girl. All perfect. All … alive.
On the next pass of the blades, I reach the crest of a slight hill and see a pickup truck approaching from the side, probably going to hit the intersection the same time I do. I may have only had my license for a month, but I know the universal rule of trucks: they will cut you off at any opportunity. So I stay in the chickenshit lane and tap the brakes—
And hydroplane wildly. With a gasp, I shimmy the steering wheel to correct myself, splashing rooster tails of rain under my tires and shots of adrenaline in my stomach. In the next puddle, I’m tempted to smash the brake pedal, but I clearly remember the page in the driver’s ed handbook on maneuvering in the rain. On a wet surface, tap brakes repeatedly to avoid … something. Flooding? I don’t know which car part could flood, but I’d rather not risk it. So I touch the pedal again, applying light pressure, once, twice. But nothing happens. In fact, the car is picking up speed on the downhill slope.
“Crap.” The wipers fly by and I see the truck, the traffic light, but rain blurs my view again. “Come on!” I scream, willing the windshield wipers to move faster and clear the glass. They do, and I touch the brakes again.
Nothing.
With a soft inhale of surprise, I fight a wave of panic and press the brakes a little harder.
Nothing. This car isn’t slowing.
And neither is the black truck. The light turns yellow and I slam my foot on the brake so hard the pedal collapses onto the floor. I brace for my back end to fishtail, fighting the urge to squeeze my eyes shut, accepting the unacceptable: I have no brakes.
My Accord is flying now, spraying water like wings on either side of the car, barreling toward the yellow light with scant seconds before it turns red. The truck is twenty feet from the intersection and so am I.
“Stop!” I scream at him and my stupid car and everything in the world. But nothing stops. The wipers smack at the rain as the car soars forward and the damn truck isn’t slowing down. I stab at the console for the emergency brake, but there’s no time and I can’t get my shaking fingers around the grip.
Five feet from the corner, the light turns red and I stomp the useless brake pedal over and over and over again. A scream wells up inside me as I steal a glance to my right, blinded by the beams of the truck hauling ass right at me.
“Stop!” I cry again, finally yanking the emergency brake handle with every ounce of strength I have, looking left and right for an escape as I careen right into the intersection.
I can’t hear my own scream, but I feel everything. My muscles tense like steel in anticipation of the crash. Ice-cold terror washes over my body. The car’s moving like a roller coaster down a ramp and all I can hear is the piercing and relentless shriek of a pissed-off truck driver’s high-pitched horn.
Everything whips to the left, then the right, and I close my eyes as the world spins and twists and my chest is squeezed by the seat belt that keeps me squashed to the seat.
My only thought is … Conner. Is this how my brother felt when the conveyor belt yanked him down? When his neck snapped? When his world went black and cold