Page 118 of Pack Me Up

I taste blood, iron and salt. Then everything goes black.

I wake up to pain, which is the only proof I’m still alive, and the next thing I know is that the world is upside down and full of blood.

It’s dark. Not the night kind, but the kind you get when your vision goes black at the edges and all the color drains away. I blink, and everything swims. I can’t move my head—the seatbelt’s got me by the ribs, digging in so deep I think it’s cutting through skin. My arms dangle over my head. Blood drips off my fingers and pools on the shattered windshield below me.

I hang there, every heartbeat pounding behind my eyes, and for a second I can’t remember what happened. Then it comes back, like a movie in reverse: the curve of the road, the glareof the truck’s headlights, the sound of steel folding in on itself. Brittney’s scream.

My first instinct is to check for the bond, for Brittney, and for the twin frequency that’s been in my head since the womb.

I reach for it. The line’s still there, but it’s thin and tinny, like a radio on the wrong station. Brittney is somewhere far away. She’s alive, but dimmed, flickering.

“Brittney!” I scream but there’s no response.

“Cody!” I shout, but the word barely makes it out, stuck behind spit and panic.

Nothing. No response, no stupid retort, no sense of him anywhere.

I try again, louder: “Cody! Answer me!”

There’s a noise behind me—metal scraping, a groan, the pop of plastic as something breaks loose. Hunter’s voice is ragged as he says, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s alive. That’s something.

“Fox?” I call out, or maybe just think it, the world’s spinning so hard I can’t tell what’s real.

“Here,” Fox croaks, close by. “My leg. I can’t—”

Saint’s voice cuts in, sharp and hard. “Everyone sound off. Now.”

“Hunter,” Hunter says, panting.

“Fox. Hurt,” Fox says, breath like a saw.

“Colton,” I say. “I can’t find Cody. Or Brittney.”

The world tilts. I see the mess of the interior—crumpled airbags, glass glittering everywhere, the white plastic of the steering wheel bent in on itself. I’m still upside down. The seatbelt is the only thing keeping me from crashing headfirst into the ground.

I reach up, fingers slick with blood, and fumble for the buckle. It won’t budge. My vision tunnels, blackness creeping inat the edges, but I don’t stop. I claw at it, nails snapping, skin tearing, until finally the latch gives way.

Gravity slams me down, shoulders first. My head bounces off the roof, and for a second everything goes black.

I come to with my cheek pressed against shattered glass, my arms twisted under me. The world smells like gasoline and hot metal, and there’s a high, keening whine in my ears. I try to push up, but my left arm is numb, useless. I use the right, dragging myself over the seat toward the back of the car.

I cut my palm open on a chunk of glass. The pain is sharp and sudden, but it clears the fog for a second.

I get my bearings. The car’s upside down with the whole shell twisted around us. There’s a hole in the back window, big enough to crawl through.

“Saint!” I yell, my voice ragged.

He grunts, maybe a foot away. “Get to the back. We have to get out.”

The urge to argue is strong, but the need to move is stronger. I dig my knees into the seat, pushing through the glass and torn upholstery. Every inch is agony. My ribs scream, my head is full of static, and my hand is leaving smears of red on everything I touch.

I reach the back. Hunter’s already there, one arm holding his ribs. I grab Hunter by the collar, yanking him toward the hole. He curses, then helps, the two of us kicking and shoving until the window frame gives and we tumble out onto the asphalt.

I sit up, the whole horizon spinning. My hands are shaking. My legs don’t want to work.

“Where’s Brittney?” I gasp, scanning the wreck.