“I—I don't have it. It's not here! Oh my god, I gave Pete my phone.”

“What do you mean! Why!”

“My pockets are too small!” She peaked at the arm. “Is he alive?” She was barely audible.

“I'll go!” I said. “I'll catch up to Pete and get help.”

“Wait, don't leave!” Tilly looked at me with the eyes of a shot fawn.

“I'll go,” I said again. “I have to—”

I began running back through the rain as fast as I could. I heard Tilly scream after me, and felt sick to my stomach. It was in the dawning dark of the evening and sheets of gray rain, as I splashed back toward the overpass, that my foot connected with the cinder block in the road. A violent shiver of pain shot up my leg through my jeans, and I face planted in the dirt, scraping my hands and elbows in slick mud and gravel.

I didn't stop. I pushed myself up, sucked in my breath, and began sprinting again. My jeans clung to my right ankle more than my left, and the hem was turning burgundy. Ahead, the trees broke into the light of the single street lamp which shone down on the overpass. I heard Pete before I saw him.

“Brennan!” He shouted to me as I stumbled toward him. “What the hell man. Where were you guys!”

When I was close enough for him to make out, he stuttered. “Tilly left her pho— What the shit, dude. You look like you wiped doing a 900 at Urbana skatepark. Where's Tilly?”

“She's with the truck,” I gasped. “Pete, call an ambulance.”

“Jesus Christ. What happened? Is she okay?”

Insanely, I almost laughed.



When we made it back to Tilly, she was sitting on the pile of blocks in the headlights of the overturned truck. As it happened, she was not okay. Her knees were pulled to her chest, and, when I called to her, her eyes were red.