“Stop the fucking car!” I shouted directly in Riley’s ear. “We have to go back. Have to call 911!”
Riley’s eyes glazed over. He beat his fist against the steering wheel. “Shit!”
“Dammit, stop!” I screamed.
But he didn’t stop. He kept rolling down the street—barely a crawl, but still moving. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” he kept repeating.
I wasn’t sure what came over me. I only knew I had to help that cyclist, and Riley was just…gone. There was no time for a well-thought-out plan. One moment, I decided I needed to help, and the next, I opened the car door and pitched myself onto the asphalt.
The hem of my pants caught in the doorframe for a second, causing me to exit the vehicle shoulder-first. Even going as slow as we were, the jolt of pain that ricocheted through me as I collided with the ground was like nothing I’d ever experienced.
I was scrawny, short, and hardly made of muscle, so hitting the street felt like landing on a bed of nails, even with my heavy coat. I rolled—maybe five times, maybe a million—and my head hit the asphalt repeatedly with sickening smacks.
The impact shredded half my coat right off my body, along with some of the skin on my torso. I cried out as pain sliced across my hand.
Finally, I stopped rolling, but when I tried to stand, I crumpled to the ground. One of my legs wouldn’t hold me, almost like it wasn’t there at all.
My breathing came in short pants as the pain took hold. I needed to move.
I stumbled into a bear crawl. Focusing on my purpose kept the agony at bay. I had to get to that bike. Had to call for help.
Relying mainly on my left hand and right leg, I dragged my useless left ankle behind me. I collapsed onto my right elbow, my right hand bloodied beyond recognition.
I struggled, inch by torturous inch, from half a block away—numb, shocked, and dizzy.
By providence, I made it to the bike, only to pull my phone out of my pocket and find it completely trashed. Crushed by my fall.
I huddled next to the cyclist. I could see now she was an older woman, probably in her sixties. She breathed evenly but remained unconscious. There didn’t seem to be anything bloody other than some scratches on her face. But she didn’t wake up. My mind began to cloud as the pain settled deeper into my body.
I needed to dosomethingfor this woman.
My hand hurt so much. Blood poured from my palm, dripping over my wrist.
Had Riley turned back around?
I needed to do something.
With my last breaths, I yelled for help like a wounded animal. Wailed my frustration that this night had gone so horribly wrong. Finally, I surrendered to the anguish, huddling next to the biker and whispering, “I’m sorry,” before the blackness pulled me under completely.
Chapter two
FIVE YEARS AGO
Maureen
The holiday season never truly began until I heard “Christmas Wrapping” by the Waitresses. Memories of the record ticking and popping every December on my mom’s vinyl player had made a lasting impression. It didn’t matter if it happened randomly in the car or standing in line at the grocery store. Once that song came over the speakers, the time of merry and bright had begun.
That’s why I was stoked to hear the new wave classic as I got my hand stamped and walked through the grimy entryway into Musicbox’s main room the Sunday after Thanksgiving.
The first band wasn’t due on stage yet. I approved of the venue unapologetically playing Christmas tunes for the less-than-receptive crowd, as well as decorating for the season. A pink plastic tree stood prominently in one corner. Felt dollar store stockings hung behind the bar. A few audience members directed aggrieved looks at the speakers, rolling their eyes as “Christmas in Hollis” came on next.
Geesh. Tough crowd. I wasn’t a Christmas fanatic or anything. But in this room full of concertgoers frowning at the holiday music—it was Run DMC, for goodness’ sake, not Bing Crosby—I felt downright festive as I hummed along. Across the room, I noticed a guy with blue-black hair also nodding to the song. It was comforting to know I wasn’t the only person here not drowning in ennui.
My best friend Bren and I shoved our way toward the front. A second later, the holiday playlist cut off, and the opening band started its set.
It was a triple bill tonight. Three pop-punk bands from Europe. Not my favorite type of music but not the worst option either. And beggars couldn’t be choosers. I’d just gotten back from Coleman Creek that morning, still buzzing with the odd mix of happiness and guilt that followed every visit to my hometown. Bren had registered my mood the minute I’d dropped my suitcase back in our central Seattle apartment, and because she was the world’s greatest roommate and friend, she’d scored us these last-minute tickets.
The bands turned out to be surprisingly decent and just what I needed. But they weren’t the only thing capturing my attention. As the night wore on, my eyes kept drifting to the guy with theblue-black hair who stayed near the back of the room. The one pretending not to notice me.
