Rush The Game

hand on my arm, tight as a vise, yanking me to my feet.
    Luka.
    He pulls. I pull. Opposite directions. Our dance is all wrong.
    The truck slams us both.
    I shouldn’t be able to define each sensation, each event. But I can. I double over forward with the force of the blow. Then I’m lifted. I’m flying. Screaming. Until I hit the ground and my breath is forced out in an obscene rush.
    There’s no pain. Not yet. Only shock and the cold knife of my fear.
    Sound hurts my ears. My name. People are screaming my name, over and over. I want to tell them I’m okay, but my mouth won’t work, and I have no breath to lend sound to my words.
    Turning my head, I see the little girl standing at the side of the road, her face streaked with tears. My friends are standing beside her, screaming, pushing at the air. I don’t understand what they’re trying to do. The roaring in my ears drowns out whatever they’re saying.
    The lights flicker like someone flipped a switch, except we’re outside and there’s no switch to flip. Everything goes dark. Then light again. The truck’s right in front of me, the rusted chrome bumper stained red, like finger paint or smears of cherry juice.
    I turn my head to the opposite side and see Luka, his body twisted and broken, a puddle of blood forming beneath him on the road. His eyes are open. They’re dark blue, bright and clear as an arctic lake. Like mine. I never noticed that before; I thought his eyes were brown. His lips move. I can’t hear, but I think he’s saying, “Okay.”
    He’s wrong. This definitely is not okay.
    I look down and feel a sort of distant horror as I see a body that is mine but not mine. My limbs are bent at odd angles. Shards of bone poke out through my skin. When I try to move, I realize that I feel no pain because I feel nothing . Nothing at all. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t move anything but my head.
    I’m broken, like Luka. Broken and bloody.
    The thought feels hazy, as though it ought to mean more to me than it does.
    I smell cotton candy and cookies. I smell metal and raw steak.
    Then I hear it again. The screaming. But it’s far away, growing fainter. It fades until I hear only the sound of my own heartbeat, growing ever slower. Slower.
    Slower.
    Stay still. Let it pass , the boy says in my head.
    Sounds like a plan.
    I wait for the next heartbeat, but it doesn’t come.



CHAPTER TWO
    I OPEN MY EYES TO SEE THE BLURRED OUTLINES OF LEAVES and branches and a sky so blue it hurts. As the world tilts and drops, I curl my fingers into the long grass and hang on. The world’s still spinning, but at least if I hold on, I won’t fall off.
    The grass . . . it feels wrong, but I can’t say why. Confusion rides me as I try to sit up.
    “Wait. Let it pass.” A boy’s voice. Cool. Authoritative.
    Familiar?
    I feel like I should recognize it. I think there are all sorts of things I ought to know— would know—if the knowledge would just stop dancing away from me. But I can’t quite grab hold of it. The thoughts drift away as my vision clicks into sharp focus.
    The colors here are too bright. Too blue. Too green. They burn my eyes, straight through to my brain, a deep, agonizing pain. I close my eyes against the glare.
    “Just lie still.”
    Definitely sounds like a plan. The ground feels like it’s going to fall away, and my head feels like it’s about to explode. Carly gets migraines. I’ve never had one before, but I wonder now if they feel like this. If so, I need to be a lot more sympathetic to her in the future.
    Carly. My best friend. I remember her . . . but I can’t remember where I am or how I got here.
    Fear uncoils in my gut. I know from experience that fear can easily tip down the slippery slope to full-on panic.
    Eyes closed, I concentrate on visualizing a sandy beach and slowing my breathing—in through my nose, hold, out through my mouth—the way Dr. Andrews, my grief counselor, taught me. I’ve done this often enough to know it works. I’ve used it to numb the panic and sorrow for the past two years. Problem is, I’ve also succeeded in dulling pretty much every other emotion. There’s always a price.
    “. . . scores . . . ,” a girl says, her voice tinny and distant.
    “Nice . . . multi-hit bonus . . . ,” a boy says a few seconds later. Neither voice is familiar. Their words fade in and out.
    I want to open my eyes and see who’s talking, but my lids are heavy. I feel like I’m being sucked into a