“Alisha?”
Charlotte was still crying in the background.
“Alisha. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
Nothing.
I didn’t remember parking.
I didn’t remember running.
I only saw the car folded around the tree.
And her inside it.
I pulled at the driver’s side door, but it wouldn’t budge. So I leaned in through the broken window.
“Alisha. Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
There was blood on her temple. A thin line at first. Then more, trailing down across her cheek and dripping onto her collarbone.
I pressed my fingers to her neck, but I couldn’t tell if I felt anything or if my own pulse was pounding too violently in my ears.
“Please don’t leave me,” I begged.“I can’t do this without you.”
Her head shifted slightly.
Or maybe it didn’t.
“Sir, step back.”
I hadn’t heard the EMTs arrive, but suddenly, there were hands on my shoulders and flashlights cutting through the dark.
Voices. Controlled. Urgent.
“I’m her husband,” I said, like that meant something. Like that gave me authority over what was happening.
“We’ve got her,” someone said.
They eased me back.
“No,” I said.“No, she’s still—she’s still breathing.”
Or maybe she wasn’t.
I couldn’t actually tell.
“Sir, we need space.”
As if this was something that could be managed. Organized. Reversed.
And then I heard Charlotte again.
My fourteen-month-old baby, strapped into her car seat.
Crying.
High, panicked sobs.