“Oh my God, look . . . ,” Trey says, the words trailing off. His head is turned and he’s looking behind us out the window. He points and his voice turns to wonder. “Holy crap, Jules. You were right. Here it comes.” He turns and gives me a look of utter terror. “You’re going to have to gun it!”

Thirty-Three

I glance at the restaurant one last time and see Kate, the smoking girl, coming outside. “No,” I shout, though there’s no way she can hear me. “Get back!” She must be one of the people in the body bags, I realize with a pang. I ease onto the gas so we gain speed without spinning out, just before the snowplow jounces over the curb and the snow. By the time it comes up alongside me, we are moving well, and I edge my nose in front of it, hanging on for the initial jolt. The snowplow’s not slowing, and I have to floor it to stay in front. I tap it twice more. “It’s not moving over!” I scream, and then I swerve hard into it, breaking Trey’s window. It’s bumper cars for the big leagues.

“Shit!” Everything goes in slow motion. My insides quake and slam against each other. My head bangs against my window and then cracks into Trey’s head, but I feel no pain. The hood of our meatball truck flies open as I find the gas pedal again and gun it once more, blinded but trying with all my might to push the plow away from the building. “Help me!” I scream. “I can’t hold it! I can’t see!”

Trey grabs the wheel and together we crank it, and I catch a glimpse of the snowplow driver’s head smashing against his window and flopping forward, his body held up only by his seat belt.

“Hang on!” Trey yells.

The grinding sound of metal on metal makes my head want to explode. I lean left to try to look around the hood, seeing the restaurant window and the blond girl safely off to my left. “We’re doing it!” I yell.

A split second later all I can see from my side window is a brick wall coming at me. I try to get away from it, leaning my head toward Trey, but momentum is against me and the rest of me won’t follow. I feel my body pressing hard against my door, against my will.

When the plow slams us into the corner of the restaurant, there is an enormous crunching sound, and pressure, pressure. Pressure.

All goes black.

• • •

Sirens. All I hear are emergency sirens trying to play a song, but nobody gets the tune right. I want them to play a song I know, but they don’t listen to me. They can’t hear me.

In the background of the horrible siren song is the vision, playing slow, and I can see through everything like they are ghosts. It’s a different story now. The snowplow speeds toward the restaurant, swerving to the wrong side of the road, jumping the curb, where a food truck in the back of a mostly empty parking lot speeds to meet it. The truck noses in front of the plow, trying to guide it away from the restaurant, but the plow doesn’t help it. The food truck turns sharply, smashes its passenger side into the side of the snowplow. A smoking girl watches dumbfounded from the back step of the restaurant, about to be smashed to bits, yet frozen, unable to move. A young man in the window stares wide-eyed. He checks his watch, drops settings on an empty table, and runs.

The food truck makes a last grand effort to push the plow away from the building, and finally it succeeds, just barely. But there’s not enough room for both vehicles to clear it. The food truck slams into the corner of the building as the snowplow is forced to turn toward the road. It ramps up the hood of a parked car, tips over it, and lands with a shudder on its side, sliding and coming to rest in a quiet intersection. The food truck, wrapped around the corner of the building, is bent like an elbow and hissing. Two giant meatballs have snapped off and soar through the air, coming to an abrupt rest in a snowbank.

No one moves.

• • •

The smoking girl comes to life. She makes a phone call with shaky hands and opens the door from which she came, screaming for help.

• • •

When red and blue lights make the evening glow, two body bags lie in the snow.

A moment later, one of them disappears.

The vision ends before the wheels of the snowplow stop spinning.

Thirty-Four

I hear things. People talking, shouting. I hear a familiar voice, but I can’t place it. For a second I open my eyes, looking for the vision in the shattered, blood-spattered windshield and not seeing it. A voice shouts my name. But it’s very noisy there. I have to close my eyes and go back to where it’s quiet again.

• • •

Every time I open my eyes, I hear the shouting and the screeching and the buzzing, and I can’t stand it. I need to get away from it. My stomach hurts and I feel like I am in a lot of trouble. I snuck out again. My father is going to be so mad. But I can’t think for long because I have to get away.

• • •

When I wake up, an animal is attacking my face. I try to reach for it but only one of my arms moves. I grab the animal and pull its skinny legs out of my nose, but that only hurts more. I have to get out of there. I have to get it off me. I hear noises again, but it’s all muffled—everything is muffled, and I wonder if my wig has slipped down over my ears.

Somebody holds my arm and I go back to sleep.

• • •

The next time I wake up, I just open my eyes and stare at the weird ceiling above me. For a moment I wonder if Dad did something to our bedroom. I frown at it, puzzled. I try to swallow and my throat hurts. I blink a few times, not quite sure if I’m going to get out of bed today, but I know I probably have a test or something . . . or wait, no—it’s a food holiday so it’ll be busy. I have to work. I brace my right hand on the bed to try and scoot myself up to sitting, but I’m just too tired. I’ll try again later.