with the truck as it went over the edge and flipped.
Metal screeched. I turned into an object trying to bounce off the crumpling trap of the truck’s cab. It was as if the darkness itself pummeled me with a giant’s fist, and then a hard blow on my head—then silence. Stillness. I lay beneath a whole mountain of hurt listening to someone moan.
That irritated me. What business did this bozo have moaning when I was the one with the mountain on me? I opened my mouth to tell him to shut up. The moaning stopped.
Something in that cause-and-effect sequence woke a few brain cells. That had been me moaning, and I was…I was…in my truck. Only I was hanging at a funny angle.
I blinked. My right eyelid felt gummy. Slowly I put together the pressure across my pelvis and chest, the glow of the dash lights and the stillness. The nose of the truck was pointed down, but the pitch wasn’t too steep.
I was alive. And I was hurt.
How bad? I couldn’t tell. The pain itself addled me, made it hard to think. But my head…yeah, I remembered getting hit there. Instinctively I lifted my hand to see what touch could tell me. My shoulder exploded. Pain nearly sucked me down. I lay draped over my seat belt and shoulder harness and panted.
Okay, obviously my shoulder was hurt, too. Pretty bad.
Over the soft sound of rain I heard a creaking sound. A prickle of alarm made me lift my head. And rap it against something.
It didn’t take long for me to run out of breath for cursing. Or to figure out the problem: the roof of the truck was caved in. I couldn’t straighten my head.
My breath came faster. Slowly I turned my head to the right. Shards of glass glittered on the seat beside me. I couldn’t see outside because light turned the starred surface of the glass opaque.
How about that. The headlights were still on. I looked to the left.
The door was bashed in.
Deep breaths, I told myself. Panic won’t help. I wiggled the fingers on my left hand, then cautiously moved that arm. All right so far. With equal care I shifted my legs. Okay, good. I had three out of four limbs operational. I’d survived a tumble down a mountain and I was hurt, but I was alive, dammit. And I wasn’t trapped. I could get out.
Getting out was a bitch.
The buckle to the seat belt was slippery and wet, but I got it undone, then needed to get my breath. Which was ridiculous, of course, but…my jeans were soaked. My jacket, too. And beneath the jacket my shirt stuck to me, warm and wet.
An awful lot of my blood was outside of me instead of inside.
That scared me. I reached for the door handle. My first tug didn’t do a damned thing.
Fear hit, sweeping everything else out of the way. Pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but getting out. I jerked on the handle as hard as I could, throwing my weight against it.
Metal shrieked. The door swung open and I fell out. I managed to thrust one leg out to catch myself, but the jolt as my foot hit the ground set off a charge in my shoulder that toppled my whole system.
I didn’t black out. Quite. But for a while there was nothing but a red, roaring monster eating my thoughts before they could form. Eventually I noticed how cold and wet the ground was. It was a lot colder out here than in the truck. Wetter, too. Maybe getting out hadn’t been such a great move, but I was here now. What came next?
The road. I had to get to the road. Not much traffic this time of night, but sooner or later that downed power line would attract attention.
Dragging myself to a sitting position left me clammy, but I made it and looked up the way the truck and I had come. Only I couldn’t see the road. Too dark, and the rain didn’t help. How far had I fallen?
I fought back a wave of despair. I knew where the road was—up. So that’s where I would go.
First I used my left hand to tuck my right one into the pocket of my jacket. There were trees, mostly pines. Not much in the way of underbrush, and the truck’s passage had cleared a path through what did exist. Good. In a battle between me and a clump of weeds right then, the weeds would win.
Standing was out, so hand-and-knees it was. I started moving.
Gwen had once told me that women forget how much childbirth hurts. She made a joke of it, saying that was how nature tricked them into a repeat performance. I didn’t understand then. I’d heard women swapping war stories, and it seemed to me they remembered labor pretty well.
Now I know what she meant. I remember that I hurt. Every inch up that slope equaled a yard or two of pain. But the pain itself isn’t there anymore, just the imprint it left behind.
When you hurt enough, you lose hold of past and future. Like a baby or a beast, all you have is right now. I lost the knack of connecting all those nows in the usual way, like beads on a string. So some beads got lost. Others stayed stuck inside me, like a splinter the flesh has grown up around.
One of the beads that got stuck was the moment my truck finished falling.
I hadn’t thought about what halted the truck’s fall. Maybe that knowledge had squirmed around underneath, and that’s why the creaking sound had alarmed me, why I’d been so frantic to get out. The second I heard that sharp, wooden crack, I knew what it meant. I craned my head to look behind me.
Branches snapped. Glass broke, and the headlights went out at last. A tangled mass of truck and tree, their shapes merged by darkness and disaster, toppled slowly, then crashed its way down the mountain. I blinked, swaying on my knees and one good hand like a suspension bridge in the wind.
That had been a damned fine truck.
I didn’t mourn for long, though. I wasn’t holding on to thoughts too well by then—they blew through my mind like smoke. But I had a good grip on purpose.
Up. I had to keep going up.
I remember being racked with shudders as the cold worked its way inside. At some point the shuddering stopped, but by then I was too far gone to realize what a bad sign that was. I remember thinking about Zach, but that isn’t tied to any one moment. Thoughts of my son are woven through all the memory bits, like the rocks. They were everywhere, too.
I remember the angel.
That part has a beginning, a middle and an end, beads lined up neatly in order. It was the warmth that called me back. It wormed its way deep inside and tugged at me, made me notice it. And with that noticing came a thought, sluggish but complete: the warmth was real. I knew that because I started shivering again, and shivering—any movement—hurt.
I blinked open my eyes.
It wasn’t her face that gave me the idea she was an angel. She was beautiful, but more exotic than angelic with her flat, wide cheekbones and tilty eyes. Her mouth was downright lush. But she had to be an angel. She was glowing.
Deeply disappointed, I croaked, “I’m dead, then.”
Those full lips twitched. “No, not at all.” She had a smooth sort of voice, sweet and thick like honey. And a Southern accent, which
