Page 116 of The Last Call Home
But tonight, I’m still breathing.
Still driving down this road.
Still trying to remember what it felt like before everything turned into ashes.
Maybe tonight is the night when it happens.Simone texted earlier, saying she’s making mocktails and those spicy shrimp tacos she saw on social media.Blythe, Gale, and Nysa are bringing appetizers and desserts.Honestly, I think this whole thing is to cheer me up.Everyone’s been tiptoeing around me as if I might shatter.And maybe I will.But not tonight.
Tonight, I want to pretend I’m just a girl, driving to her bestie’s house with a six-pack of sparkling rosé.
I crank the music louder.Indie and mournful lyrics pour through the speakers.The headlights slice through the darkness, sweeping across the asphalt and shoulder.There’re no cars behind me.None ahead.Just me, the road, and the pulse of night pressing in.
And then, suddenly something’s there—out of nowhere.
It’s blocking the road.It’s an unmoving shape.Maybe a broken car or ...a big trunk?I slam the brakes.The car lurches, tires screaming against the pavement as if I’m skidding.My body whips forward, the seatbelt biting across my chest like a warning.
Breath—gone.
Heart—stuttering, off-rhythm and panicked.
The car skids sideways, and then jerks to a stop, its nose angled inches from—whatever the hell that is.
I grip the wheel, pulse pounding in my ears louder than the music.
Suddenly there’s a silence.My engine is dead and everything feels wrong.It’s almost as if the night is holding its breath so it can’t be noticed.It’s escaping from danger.
I notice there’s someone standing in the middle of the road.At first, I think it’s a deer.Then a kid.Then?—
“Shit!”I say, slamming on the brakes, eyes wide as I squint through the windshield.
Past the weird trunk or whatever that is, there’s a woman.
Dark hair hangs in tangled ropes down her back, soaked and clinging like it’s been raining everywhere but here.Her frame is too thin, like something that’s been starved of warmth and sleep and light.Barefoot—bare-fucking-foot—in the middle of nowhere, like she wandered out of a nightmare and forgot how to wake up.
She’s wearing a white nightgown, or what remains of it.It’s soaked through and torn in places, the fabric clinging to her skin as if trying to hold her together.
I flick on my brights, but she doesn’t flinch.
My hand hovers over the gear shift.I should back up.Call someone.I fumble for my phone, but the signal’s gone—no bars.
She raises her hand.
Not waving.Not calling for help.
Pointing.
At me.
My blood ices over.
I throw the car into reverse, but the world goes sideways.
Tires squeal.A van slams into my rear bumper, launching the car forward.My head jerks back, then forward, pain ringing in my skull like a struck bell.
“Fuck.”
The woman’s gone.I take off my bracelets, maybe they’ll know something happened to me if they’re here.Maybe ...I grab my phone and press record just in case something appears, a clue.This isn’t good.
I’m reaching for the door when the passenger-side window shatters—glass raining across the seat like a grenade just went off.
