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The engine revs again and the sports car shoots past. I catch a glimpse of a woman hanging out the passenger window with a lit cigarette. She flips Ari the bird as they speed by.

Fury washes over me.

My fists clench, nails digging into my palms. I imagine karmic justice striking them. A blown tire that would send them spinning off the road, crashing into a telephone pole, and—

BANG!

Ari and I both yelp. For a second I think it was a gunshot. But then we see the car, nearly a block ahead, spinning out of control.

It blew a tire.

I press a hand to my mouth. It feels like watching a video in slow motion. The car turns a hundred eighty degrees, miraculously missing the other vehicles parked on the side of the road. It wheels onto the sidewalk, stopping only when the front bumper smashes into—not a telephone pole—a giant palm tree. The hood crumples like an aluminum can.

For a moment, Ari and I are frozen, gaping at the wreck. Then Ari is scrambling to unbuckle her seat belt and kick open her door. She’s running toward the wreck before I can think to move, and once I finally do, it’s only to unclench my fists.

My fingers are tingling, on the verge of numbness. I look down at them, my skin tinted orange from the streetlamp.

Coincidence.

Just some freaky coincidence.

I somehow find the wherewithal to dig out my phone and call the police, and by the time I’ve given the operator the information, my hand has stopped shaking and Ari is making her way toward me. “Everyone’s okay,” she says, breathless. “The airbags went off.”

“I called the police. They’ll be here soon.”

She nods.

“Areyouokay?” I ask.

Ari sinks into her seat. “I think so. Just scared the heck out of me.”

“Me too.” I reach over and squeeze her hand.

Her expression is pained when she looks at me. “This is terrible, but when it happened—like, that first split second after they crashed, my first thought was…” She trails off.

“Serves them right,” I finish for her.

Her face pinches guiltily.

“Ari, they were being jerks. And driving really erratically. I hate to say it, but… itdoesserve them right.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Rather than respond—because I’m pretty sure Idomean that—I withdraw my hand from hers. “I’m glad no one is seriously hurt,” I say. “Including us.” Reaching up, I rub the back of my head, where the lump seems to be going down. “I don’t think my head could handle another collision tonight.”

SEVEN

My headache is mostly gone the next morning, but there’s a lingering grogginess that clouds the inside of my skull as I print out the anglerfish paper, along with Jude’s piece on the basking shark, and get dressed.

“Last day,” I whisper to my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The words are a bit like a mantra, motivating me as I brush my teeth and untangle the same knots from my hair that I work to untangle every morning.Last day. Last day. Last day.

I’ve slept in almost an hour past the time I normally like to get up, and I can hear my family’s chaos already in full swing downstairs. Dad has a Kinks record playing and it’s one of their lively, upbeat tunes, “Come Dancing.” Dad has this theory that starting out the morning with music that makes you feel good will automatically turn the day into an awesome day. I mean, I think there’s something to that, and I believe in starting out on the right foot as often as possible, but sometimes his chipper morning tunes are more grating than inspiring. Everyone in the family has tried to tell him this on different occasions, but he brushes off the criticism. I think he might have the morning playlist for the entire summer already picked out.

Over the music, Ellie—four years old and full of Big Emotions—is screaming about who-knows-what. There are days when I feel like Ellie’s life is just one big tantrum.No, I won’t take a bath. No, I don’t want to put on socks. No, I hate Goldfish crackers. Hey, Lucy is eating my Goldfish crackers, it’s not faaaaaiiiir.

I hear a loud thump and something crashes downstairs, immediately followed by my mom’s shrill scream. “Lucy! I said, not in the house!”

“Sorry!” comes Lucy’s not-really-that-sorry-sounding apology. A second later, I hear the back screen door squeal on its hinges.