in the moonlight, with rivulets of black-red blood snaking down.
It wasn’t a dream.
This is really happening.
How the hell did I end up here? The last thing I remember is falling asleep, listening to Rollins’s voice on the radio. How could I possibly have risen, unaware, snuck down the stairs and out the door, and climbed into my father’s car?
It just doesn’t make any sense.
Scrambling, I look around for my phone. If I was able to somehow get into the car and drive myself into the middle of nowhere, maybe I had the sense to grab it. But there’s nothing in the center console or on the floor. I open the glove compartment and shuffle through my father’s registration and insurance papers. Nothing.
I push open the door and stumble out into the chill that is Iowa on an April evening. The wind slices through my thin T-shirt. I duck my head into the car and grab a University of Iowa sweatshirt that my father tossed in the backseat at some point. It does little to warm me up, but it’s better than nothing.
Where am I?
The gravel road seems to stretch on forever in both directions. In the sky, Ursa Minor shines brightly. The mama bear constellation. It makes me feel a little less alone. I turn around and see the glow of the city. I start walking down the road, heading toward the light. My mind races as I try to make sense of it all.
Strange occurrences certainly aren’t new to me. I’m used to sliding into people unexpectedly and having to figure out who the hell I am and what I’m doing. But this is something else. This isn’t sliding. I’m not in someone else’s body. I’m in my own. It’s almost like . . . someone else took over my body and forced me to steal my father’s car and drive out into the country.
It’s like someone else slid into me.
Highway 6.
I seem to be a few miles south of town.
My vision goes fuzzy for a moment, and I have to hold out my hands to steady myself. Perhaps I lost too much blood in the accident. I take a few deep breaths and then, feeling better, I carry on. My bare feet, not up to the task of trudging mile after mile, have become numb. I wince, imagining what they’ll feel like tomorrow.
I keep racking my brain, trying to figure out who could have slid into me—and why. Ever since I learned to steer people’s actions during a slide, I’ve been wondering what happens to the original inhabitant of the bodies. Do they go somewhere else? Do they just kind of black out?
I remember this time I slid into my father when he was jogging. I was so surprised to find myself in his body that I lost my balance and caused him to trip and fall. He landed on the pavement hard. And then I slid back into my own body.
I ran downstairs to find my father limping in the front door, looking dazed. He pointed to his ankle and said he must have fainted during his run. One second he’d been finishing his lap around the block, and the next he collapsed on the street. Now I wonder if there was a point in between, when everything turned murky and strange. Like how I was in English today.
Is it possible that someone slid into me while I was asleep and brought me here? How could it be possible? I’ve never heard of anyone else with the ability to slide—and, trust me, I’ve spent plenty of time Googling. What’s the likelihood of there being another slider out there? One with access to something I touched and left an imprint on? Because that’s what it would take for someone to slide into me.
No. It’s not possible. It has to be something else.
Something up ahead shines into my eyes. Headlights! I wave my hands over my head, praying that the yellow sweatshirt I’m wearing is bright enough to make me visible to the driver.
“Hey,” I shout. “Help!”
The car slows down beside me, and I see that it’s a cherry-red, vintage Mustang. The sight of it brings back sickening memories. I’ve ridden in a car just like this before—the night of the homecoming dance last year, to be precise.
My fears are confirmed when the driver rolls down the passenger-side window. Scotch Becker leans toward me. “What the hell are you doing out here, Vee?” He’s not alone. In the backseat, Samantha Phillips is sprawled drunkenly singing the school fight song, her eyes half-closed. The pungent scent of alcohol wafts from the car.
“Need a ride?” Scotch asks, smirking.
All of a sudden, I flash back to last year’s homecoming dance. Scotch has the same look on his face that he did when I awoke with my skirt around my waist—at least, until Rollins punched him.
I back away from the car, feeling like I’m going to puke. I turn and stumble into the ditch. Little spots swim before my eyes. I hear a car door open, and I panic. On instinct, I start to run, slipping into the maze of corn. I’m only vaguely aware of the husks slicing into my bare feet. I don’t slow down.
“Vee!” Scotch calls. “Vee, are you insane? I’m not going to hurt you!”
I ignore the voice and keep going. All I know is that I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere with a boy who may or may not have tried to molest me last year. I’m bleeding and confused. I just want Scotch to go away.
“Stop!” I hear Scotch panting. His footsteps slow, and then cease. “I won’t chase you. If you want to stay out here all night, fine. It’s your choice.”
My feet are killing me. I quit running and listen to myself breathe. Long, jagged mouthfuls of air. I look up at the sky and wish on the North Star that he will just leave.
“Crazy bitch,” I hear him mutter, and then more footsteps, moving farther away. Before long, his car starts up. Scotch revs his engine a few times and then takes off. Relieved, I sigh and head back toward the road. His taillights become smaller and eventually disappear.
I start to walk toward town, forcing my feet to keep moving, even though each step is agony. I fix my gaze on the city lights ahead. My destination seems a million miles away, even though I know it can’t be more than five. Still, that’s an awfully long way to walk on bare feet in the middle of the night.
A few minutes pass, and I hear a car somewhere behind me. I turn and watch the headlights come closer. Shielding my eyes, I try to decide whether I should try to flag the person down. Scotch was bad enough. What if the next driver is a serial killer?
In the end, my feet win out, and I wave my arms to get the driver’s attention. The car slows and stops beside me. It’s a blue station wagon. There’s a woman with a bun and kind eyes behind the steering wheel. She reaches for a button, and the window goes down.
“Do you need some help, sweetheart?” she asks.
I hesitate.
It seems like a terrible idea to get in a car with a stranger, but I’m pretty
