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For now, I’ll hide out in Frosty Harbor for a while until tensions back home cool off. Jake will show up eventually. Probably. I’ll hang out with my brother and the teammates he’s always refusing to let me meet. It will be just perfect. I hope.
My car sputters, gives a concerning shake, and then starts smoking. I try to steer off the side of the road and the steering wheel feels like it weighs a million pounds.
I’m no mechanic, but my gut tells me that’s not a good sign.
I pull hard on the wheel and something beneath the car makes a loud noise. Now the wheel weighs nothing, which is great, but it’s spinning like a kid’s toy and apparently useless.
“Not good!” I shout, still shaking the wheel side to side because I have no idea what else to do with my hands. I feel like a toddler pretending to drive her mom’s car.
I slam on the brakes because I see a bend in the road coming up and the car is drifting toward the steep shoulder. The brakes only manage to make the car spin, throwing me back against the seat.
The last thing I see is the road, but my car is going backwards and then there’s a split second of weightlessness followed by a deafening crash.
I blink a few times and feel like I just woke up from a great nap–only the reason I woke up from my great nap is somebody hit me in the forehead with a bowling ball. I put a hand up to my forehead and find a drop of blood there. Blood?
Did I just crash my car? Awareness cuts through the groggy fog and I look around, recognizing what happened bit by bit.
I look at the dashboard, still confused. The airbags came out and already deflated. The windshield is cracked. The whole car smells kind of like gunpowder for some reason.
For a few long seconds, I just sit there in the driver seat of my suddenly unfamiliar car. I conduct a comprehensive “limb thereness” test. Four limbs. That’s the right number, isn’t it?
Once I’ve confirmed two arms and two legs is all I had before the crash, I decide I’m the luckiest woman alive for surviving that crash practically unscathed.
I notice the check engine light politely flashing on the dash.
“Oh, that’s helpful,” I say. My voice sounds distant and muffled after the bang of the crash and the airbags.
I scoop up my veil from the passenger seat, and then I have to throw my shoulder into the door a few times before it creaks open.
“This is great,” I say, breathless from the effort. “I’m talking to myself now, and not just in my head. We’ve gone full crazy because we’re talking out loud. And look. I just crashed my car. Is this like some kinda on-the-nose visual representation of the state of my life right now, universe?” As usual, the universe declines to answer my questions.
I walk in front of the car and consider checking under the hood, then I realize the state of the engine probably doesn’t matter since my car is wedged into a ditch. Then again, even if the car wasn’t stuck in a ditch, the only thing I know about engines is metal thing makes car go vroom vroom. Unless words of encouragement can fix mechanical problems, I have no hope of getting this thing running again.
I cross my arms, suddenly noticing the cold bite in the air. At least it’s not snowing, but my bare feet are absolutely not going to cut it out here. Somewhere in the distance, a twig breaks and echoes dramatically. A little creature chitters. Wait. How do I know it’s little? Do bears chitter?
Of course not. That’s ridiculous. Bears don’t chitter.
But aliens might.
I slowly sink into a defensive stance, lifting my veil in both hands like I’m about to go Jack Reacher on whatever comes at me from the woods.
For the first time since my tied knot trot, the reality of my situation sinks in. Yes, I’ve been thinking about nothing but what I just did for the last few hours. But there’s a difference between thinking about something and feeling something.
Right now in this moment, I feel it like a punch in the gut.
I slowly lower the veil and decide the cold air and my lack of proper clothing or heat is the only real threat I’m facing. Well, unless being subject to my obviously poor decision making for the rest of my life qualifies as a threat. It probably should.
I let out a long sigh. What the hell am I doing?
The answer seems to come straight out of the ether. You’re acting like an idiot. Call your brother. Ask for help.
I glare at nobody in particular. That was supposed to be a hypothetical question, but I pull my phone out anyway and make a call to my brother in tears. I explain where I am, what happened to my car, and brace for impact. I might even ask for confirmation that aliens aren’t chittering at me as we speak.
His deep voice comes very slowly and very controlled. “Andi. Tell me you’re not hurt. That’s all I care about right now.”
“I’m… I bled my own blood a little.” I tap my forehead and find the cut has already started to dry over. “It’s not bad, though.”
“Fuck. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
