We’re driving. With the stereo on full blast, music floods through me. Elation fills the little Toyota—Hippo, we named it. I can feel my heart matching tempo with the music, thumping to the beat. We sing our hearts out—off key and out of tune—on that little Alabama road. Say what you wanna say. The turns come and my body shifts awkwardly against the door, but we keep singing. My toes wiggle as the warm air from the vents seeps through my thick socks. Two headlights ly close ahead, resembling the twinkling of the summer stars. They whip by us, filling the air with the scent of exhaust. We smile and crack jokes, but mostly, we sing. And let the words fall out. I look at my sister: short blonde curls that cascade softly around her face, deep brown eyes that smile with warmth, and a tiny dimple that punctuates her cheek in just the right place. She belts a high note and we laugh. Honestly, I wanna see you be brave. She laughs that contagious giggle she’s always had, the one that makes everyone around her at a loss for words, and I snort my awkward laugh loud and clear. That throws us far deeper into our already-growing fit of giggles.
We never even saw it. The truck. We never saw it coming.
The world has stopped, but the radio refuses to believe this and continues to blast Sara Bareilles’ voice through the car. I hear a yelp over the sea of music and turn toward the driver's side. My sister—my perfect sister—has a pole straight through her shoulder—in one end out the other. She screams and frantically tries to find my hand to grab onto, using her uninjured arm to search. She reaches through a break in the clutter. The car must have rolled badly because there is a sheet of metal in between the front two seats, as if the sky punched through the roof. Her fingers find mine. I take a deep breath, squeeze her hand, and try to calm down. The windshield in front of us looks like a spiderweb, but is amazingly still intact. I reach my free hand out to touch it and my fingertips graze the cracked glass. Little needles tear at my calloused fingerprint.
I try to wriggle around to face my door, but when I shift, pain pierces my right calf. I look down and try not to gag. I hear a small whimper escape my lips over the roaring music. My lower calf is badly broken, twisting my sock-covered foot at a very strange angle. It must have broken under the weight of the glove box, which I now realize has separated from the rest of the dashboard and landed on my leg. I see my sister hyperventilating on the other side. “Are you alright?” she says through the panic.
Of course I’m not alright, but I’m not about to tell her that. “I’m okay, just a little break, that’s all. Er-is your arm okay?” Obviously it wasn’t, but what else could I say? “Sorry about the pole sticking out of your shoulder”?
“No, but I can take it. Can you find a way out?” I can hear the sadness in her tone. Her breathing is becoming harsher by the second.
”I think so,” I say with uncertainty, “I need to let go of your hand for a minute, okay?” I hate to let go, but I can’t get my leg free without both hands.
“Okay,” she says through the debris. She squeezes my hand once, and I see a tear fall down her rosy cheek. I let go and reach forward to where the glove box is crushing my right foot. I put one hand on the bottom edge while my other hand grasps the handle. Struggling against the weight of granola bars and insurance papers, I pull. Nothing. I pull again. Still nothing. I lean forward to get more leverage, grinding my teeth together, and lift the box, but then it drops back down, hard. I let out a cry. The pain in my leg is unbearable. I look toward my sister, but my vision is blurred with pain, and her curls—drooping, blood-covered blonde ringlets—have fallen over her face.
I reach my hand through the wreckage and feel around for her fingers. When I can’t find them, I say, “Sis, give me your hand.” She says nothing. “Sis?” I say, starting to panic. Nothing, not even a whimper. All that’s left is our favorite song—the one we always sang aloud on these warm summer nights—playing too loud.
Everybody’s been stared down by the enemy.
Fallen for the fear and done some disappearing,
Bow down to the mighty.
Don’t run, just stop holding your tongue.
I sit there while the music plays for awhile, not wanting to accept what has happened.
I wanna see you be brav--
The music stops. The world goes still, and I weep.