Page 55 of Knot So Lucky

Going to kill him and the kitten both, and there's not enough track left to brake, and the compromised brake system means I can't even try?—

"FUCK!" I scream again, and my hands move on pure instinct.

I wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, feeling the tires break traction as the car's momentum fights against the sudden change in direction. The brake pedal is useless—I know this, accept it, and jam it down anyway because maybe, the residual pressure will help.

The car goes airborne.

The sensation is surreal—one second I'm on the ground, the next I'm flying, the chassis twisting sideways as centrifugal force takes over. The world spins, sky and track and barriers blurring together in a kaleidoscope of motion that my brain can't process fast enough to track.

I'm spinning sideways through the air, the car tumbling with violent grace, and through the windshield I can see the Alpha below me. Still crouched, still holding the kitten, looking up with wide eyes as several thousand pounds of metal and carbon fiber passesoverhim with inches to spare.

Then I'm past the Alpha and the kitten, the car's trajectory carrying me beyond them even as momentum continues the tumble.

The car hits the ground with an impact that rattles every bone in my body.

Metal screeches against asphalt, carbon fiber cracking with sounds like gunshots. The chassis tumbles again, rotating end over end, and I'm thanking every deity I can name that I wore the safety harness properly.

Another impact. Another rotation. The windshield spiders with cracks.

Then finally—finally—the car skids to a stop.

Everything goes still.

For a moment, I black out.

Just a second or two, consciousness flickering like a faulty light bulb.

When awareness returns, I realize I'm upside down.

The safety harness is the only thing keeping me from crashing headfirst into the inverted roof. Smoke fills the cabin—not thick, not the black smoke that suggests fire, but enough to make me cough as my lungs protest the acrid chemical smell.

My head is ringing, a high-pitched whine that suggests either my ears are damaged or the communication system is malfunctioning. Through the distortion, I can hear voices—panicked, urgent, overlapping in ways that make comprehension impossible.

"—respond if you?—"

"—medical team?—"

"—car is stable but?—"

I mutter, voice rough from smoke and adrenaline, "I guess that's the perfect trial and error."

My hands are shaking.

Not from fear—I'm past fear, residing in that strange post-adrenaline space where everything feels simultaneously hyperreal and disconnected—but from the sheer intensity of what just happened. My fingers tremble as I try to reach for the harness release, and I notice with distant clinical interest that they're leaving small wet spots on the buckle.

Blood, probably. Or sweat. Hard to tell.

I pout at my own weakness, at the involuntary physical response I can't control.

Really hope this car doesn't explode like some dramatic action movie.

That would be an anticlimactic end to what was shaping up to be a very interesting day.

Then I smell it.

Not the smoke or rubber or burning electronics.

Something else.