Page 3 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

It’s just a car. It’s just a machine. It can’t hurt you unless you let it.

Except that’s not true, is it? That’s the kind of thing people say when they’ve never had a reason to be afraid. Cars hurt people all the time. Cars are two-ton metal boxes hurtling through space at speeds the human body was never designed to survive, and every single time you get in one, you’re making a bet that today isn’t the day the odds catch up with you.

Stop it. You’re spiraling. That’s the anxiety talking, not the facts.

I take a breath. Let it out. Take another.

The facts are: you have driven this car more times than you could ever count without incident. The facts are: millions of people drive every day and arrive at their destinations safely. The facts are: the thing you’re afraid of is statistically unlikely, and being afraid of it doesn’t change the statistics.

The facts don’t make me feel better, but they do make me feel like I’ve done my due diligence. Like I’ve acknowledged the fear and filed it under “noted but proceeding anyway.”

I get in the car.

The seat is cold through my jeans, and the steering wheel is cold under my palms, and for a moment I just sit there, letting myself adjust to the feeling of being in a vehicle instead of safely on solid ground.

The checklist on the visor is handwritten on a notecard, not laminated, I keep meaning to upgrade it, but executive dysfunction is a cruel mistress, and the ink is starting to fade at the edges. I’ve traced over some of the letters so many times that the paper is wearing through.

Meds taken.

Yes. 7 a.m., with the orange juice that was starting to taste a little weird, which means I should check the expiration date when I get home. I remember the way the pill stuck to my tongue for a second before I swallowed, that chalky vitamin taste that means my brain chemistry is being managed by modern science.

Check.

Phone in glovebox.

I pull it out of my bag now, watching my own hand do it like it belongs to someone else. The screen shows three texts from Millie, memes, all of them, a running joke about a reality TV show we’ve been hate-watching together, and I tap out a quick reply before I lose service.

Fable: Heading out. Talk tomorrow.

Then I open the glovebox, set the phone inside, and close it firmly.

Check.

No distractions. No checking texts at red lights. No fumbling for the GPS even though I know exactly where I’m going, have always known, could drive there in my sleep if my brain would just let me sleep without turning every dark hour into an anxiety festival.

Mirrors adjusted.

I adjust the rearview first, angling it so I can see the alley behind me. My own eyes stare back from the reflection: brown, too wide, shiny with the particular brightness that means I’m trying very hard not to cry.

You’re fine. You’re doing great. Mirrors are just mirrors.

Side mirrors next. Left, then right. I adjust them both twice, even though they haven’t moved since the last time I drove, because the ritual is the point. The ritual is what keeps me grounded when everything else feels like it’s floating away.

Check.

Seatbelt fastened.

Click.

Tug.

Did it click? I heard a click. Was that the right kind of click? What if the mechanism is faulty and it didn’t actually engage and…

Click again.

Tug again.

The belt is tight across my chest, a pressure that should feel constraining but is honestly closer to a hug. Like being held in place. Like something that will keep me here, in this seat, in this body, no matter what happens outside the windows.