“Julia?”

I turn my head slowly and see my mother. She looks terrible. “What’s happening?” My voice comes out all raspy.

She nods and smiles, tears in her eyes, dark circles even darker below them. “You were in an accident. You’re in the hospital. How do you feel?” There’s a noise from another part of the room and I turn my head in slow motion. Nothing wants to move today. It’s my father, and I’m too tired to be scared. Rowan is back there too, I see.

“I’m okay,” I say. And before I can say “What happened?” bits of things rush back to my memory. I struggle to sit up, alarmed, but it hurts so much to move. “Where’s Trey?”

“He’s at home,” Mom hurries to explain, reaching out and gently pushing my shoulders back down. “He’s fine. He just got banged up, some cuts and bruises. He’s sleeping. He’s . . . he’s fine.”

I fall back in relief, and then vaguely I remember the last vision. “So . . . who’s dead? Is it Sawyer?” I close my eyes, and in spite of the fuzziness in my brain, pain sears through my chest. “Oh, God. Not Sawyer.” I don’t care if my father’s listening.

“Honey,” my mother says, “you just need to rest now, okay? Don’t get all worked up.”

“You have to tell me. I know someone’s dead. Who is it?”

Rowan comes over to the other side of the bed and touches my shoulder. “It’s not Sawyer,” she says. “He’s fine.” She gives me a look like she wants to say more but can’t.

I sigh as much as my body lets me, which isn’t very much, and I’m exhausted again. “Thank you,” I whisper. Good old Rowan.

Mom holds a glass of water for me and I drink some from a straw. Everything takes so long to do.

My father just stands there, looking like a big oaf.

I gaze at him under half-closed lids. “I’m sorry about the truck,” I say, and tears start spilling, not just from my eyes, but his, too. I haven’t seen him cry in a long time.

He comes closer and takes my hand. “The truck doesn’t matter,” he says. “You matter. I’m glad you’re going to be okay.” He swallows hard and then says in a gruff voice, “You saved a lot of people. I don’t know if you know what you did.”

I almost laugh. “I have an idea,” I whisper. I want to know more, but my eyes won’t stay open, and once again everything is dark and quiet.

• • •

When I wake up again, I am alone. I open my eyes cautiously, expecting to see scene after scene reflected in the monitors and windows, but there are none. Instead, there are heart balloons and flowers by the bed. “Big sigh, Demarco,” I whisper.

My body aches, especially when I breathe. If I yawn or cough, it feels like a knife is slicing through me. I reach for the nurse’s button and push it.

A minute later, a petite black-haired nurse comes in, all smiles. “Well, there you are,” she says. “I’m Felicia. How are you doing? Ready for some pain meds? Let’s make your Valentine’s night a little happier, shall we?”

“Yes, please.” It hurts so much I feel like crying.

She pushes a button that raises the head of my bed. “Sorry I can’t just set up a morphine drip. Your parents said they didn’t want you to get addicted.” She smiles when I groan in embarrassment. “The pills take a little longer to kick in, but you’ll feel better soon.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I swallow the pills she hands me.

“Oh, let’s see here.” She checks the chart. “Your left arm is fractured, you have two cracked ribs, and we had to do some surgery for internal injuries. Looks like you are now without a spleen, and everything else got stitched up inside.” She smiles. “You have a killer black eye, and some other bruises and cuts.”

“I cut my finger,” I say, remembering. I bring my casted arm up so I can look at it. There are three little blue Xs across my knuckle.

The nurse grins. “Yes, that too. You’re definitely going to be sore for a while.”

I put my arm back down, exhausted. “Please tell me who died. Do you know?”

She smiles ruefully. “Everyone knows. It was pretty big news. The man who died was Sam Rutherford. He was the driver of the snowplow.”

My eyes flutter closed, but I’m not asleep. “Shit,” I whisper. “I never thought about him.”

“He didn’t die in the crash, though. They’re saying he had a massive heart attack before he hit you. The witnesses who saw the whole thing talked to the cops. They told them what you did. You’re kind of a hero, Miss Julia.” Felicia smiles. “The police will be by tomorrow to talk to you if you’re feeling up to it.”

I’m glad I didn’t cause the driver’s death, but I still feel terrible about it. I nod. “I guess that’s fine.”

“And meanwhile, there’s been a sweet, very worried young man in the waiting room since last night hoping to visit you. One of the witnesses. His name is Sawyer. Do you want to see him?”

My good eye opens wide. “He’s here?”

“Yes.”

Ohh, dogs. My good hand flutters to my hair, which is all matted and gross. “What do I look like?”

Felicia smiles warmly and says, “You look like a girl who just saved that guy’s life.”