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It’s the stuff of sheer nightmares: My brother’s back to me, trying to shove my best friend out the window. Caro’s legs flailing in the air—unmistakably her legs. Long, blindingly white, with the birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon in the place her butt meets her thighs, visible beneath her silk shorts riding up her hips. One of her legs is thrashing, trying to kick back at Max, and one is fumbling to anchor the top of her foot against the windowsill.

“This is all your fault, C! You brought this on yourself. And this isn’t a fight you have any chance of winning. Not anymore.”

“No, don’t!” But my plea emerges faintly—barely audible in the backdrop of their battle. “Max! Please. Max, stop.…”

My brother doesn’t turn. Instead, I watch him pry Caro’s foot from the windowsill.

I walk closer toward them. Walk the plank, as Caro’s legs stop their jerking. Become unnervingly still.

I want to say it louder, demand that Max stop, again—but what if he doesn’t? What if he gives Caro one last shove? What if he turns on me…?

I need to knock my brother out, incapacitate him until help can arrive.

My brain gives up on thought, fires up my arms, propels them up, up, up. An utterly horrifying crack follows—not loud. You’d think loud.

I lunge for Caro’s hips, wrench her back inside with superhuman strength.

A scream. It takes a beat before I realize it’s mine. I stare in horror at the crystal ice bucket skidding across the floor.

Covered in blood.