Page 1 of Not Made to Last

PART I

1

Olivia

Standing over the lifeless body, I nudge it with my toe and watch it shift an inch.

I’m being dramatic.

Obviously.

So is the person I just hit with my car.Hitwould be a slight exaggeration. I tapped it.

Him.

Notit.

But, going by how he’s lying on his side in the middle of the road, completely silent and unmoving, you’d think I ran him over with a semi at full speed. I was rolling to a stop when he came out of nowhere—dressed in all black, in the middle of the night—and now that I think about it… I’m pretty sure he hit me.

“Are you okay?” I ask, waiting a few seconds for a response that never comes. “I’m sorry.” I hunch down with my hands on my knees for a closer inspection. The headlights on my still-running truck illuminate the space around him, but I can’t seemuch of anything with his hood over his head the way it is. He’s tall, built, and that’s all I can make out from his fetal position.

I take a moment to calm my thoughts, stand to full height, and look around. We’re in a part of town that I often frequent, not because I’m invited, but because my second job brings me here. I’d just delivered a pizza to a house a block away—the most lavish home I’ve ever come across. I’m sure if I looked up the address online, it would be described as an estate, whatever that means. Either way, it’s pretty clear that my beat-up old Toyota Tacoma and I—we don’t belong.

Here, I’m surrounded by the rich.

Not rich.

Wealthy.

Big difference.

Not that any of it matters. If my eighteen years on this earth have taught me one thing, it’s that at our cores, we’re all the same. We’re nothing but flesh and bones and organs; entire bodies that are overworked, minds that overthink, and hearts that have the potential to break.

We wake up every day with goals set, hoping for that tiny piece of joy we obtain when we achieve them—all the while knowing in the back of our minds that we have absolutely zero control over this shit-show of a thing called life.

Pessimistic? Maybe. But it’s also the truth. And it’s not as if I share these thoughts with anyone, because that would be horrible. Life is crappy enough—there’s really no need for the reminder. Besides, people my age are made to believe they have the world at their feet. We can achieve anything, so we’ve been told, and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to break it to anyone.

I heave out a sigh and blink back the fog, forgetting momentarily about the possible dead body by my feet.

He still hasn’t moved.

I feel like I’ve been standing here for an eternity. In reality, it’s likely been less than a minute.

Squatting down, I gently settle my hand on his arm. “Where are you hurt?” I ask.

Nothing.

“Can I do anything?”

Still nothing.

“Do you need me to call an ambulance… or take you to the emergency room? I…” I don’t know what to do here, and now I’m starting to panic because maybe I did hit him.

The body moves.

Groans.

Progress.

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