Ali and I never discussed that moment, never even alluded to it. I think maybe we both knew, even then, that it was the beginning of something—something that might tear our lives to shreds.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the memory, pressed my forehead to my knees. Seeing Ali yesterday had broken the barricade in my mind meant to hold back precisely this kind of emotional stampede.

I needed to pull myself together.

I lifted my head, shoved my hands in my coat pockets, let the weather push me around. It wasn’t raining, not yet, but it had been storming all day, crows circling, trees rattling. I loved watching things breathe, loved watching branches sway, leaves hanging on for dear life. I didn’t mind the terrible gusts that nearly knocked back my scarf. There was something brutal about the wind, the way it slapped you in the face, left your ears ringing.

It made me feel alive.

The winds were currently too strong to allow a comfortable perusal of the newspaper, but there was a single cigarette abandoned in the linty lining of my right pocket, and I rolled it between my fingers, clenched and unclenched it in my fist. I nearly smiled.

These cigarettes had belonged to my brother.

I confiscated them before they came for his things, stole them out of their hiding places along with his weed, his dirty magazines, a box of condoms, and a single glass pipe. I didn’t want him to do anything more to break my parents’ hearts from beyond the grave. I didn’t want him to be defined by his weaknesses any more than I wanted to be defined by mine. It seemed a terrible injustice to be exposed in death, to be found out as predictably human, as frail as everyone else.

My father knew, of course. Or at least suspected.

My father was a connoisseur of all things—he had, in fact, given this mantle to himself. He loved to hear himself speak aloud the truths he’d decided were holy, and he felt strongly about all manner of diverse subjects: worthy hobbies, the best attributes, a precise work ethic, the exact ratio of water to espresso in an Americano. He had many ideas about the world, ideas he’d spent his entire life honing, and which he often felt compelled to share, loudly, with the still-forming clay of his children. My dad often declared that he and my mother were decent, pious people who’d brought their children up to be better than drug addicts. Those were his words, my father’s words, the ones he’d shouted when my brother came home with bloodshot eyes, smelling vaguely of weed for the umpteenth time.

My brother was a lazy liar.

Mehdi, too, drove a Honda Civic. A Honda Civic SI, bright blue, eighteen-inch rims. He’d modified it himself, put in a special exhaust, illegal blue lights, an insane sound system, a garish lip kit. He was expressly forbidden from drinking the alcohol he drank, expressly forbidden from dating the girls he dated, expressly forbidden from sneaking out of the house at night, which he did, nearly all the time. It was my window he used to climb out of, mine because of the ledge, the tree, the easy drop to the ground and the distance from my parents’ bedroom. He’d always kiss me on the forehead before he left, and I’d always leave my phone under my pillow, waiting, waiting for the buzz of his late-night text message asking me to unlock the front door.

My father had never been cruel, but he had always been cold. He loved rules, and he demanded respect from his children. He no doubt thought he was doing the right thing by trying to control Mehdi, but my dad had been so focused on the differences between them that he never seemed to understand that they were also the same.

Unyielding.

My father tried to break him, so my brother became water. My father tried to contain him, so my brother became the sea.

I heard a sudden crash.

I got to my feet in time to see two cars collide, slide, spin wildly out of control. Screeching tires, the horrifying sound of metal devouring metal, glass shattering. Old panic rose up inside of me, stole my breath. I was running before I understood why, tearing across the grass in a frenzy. I fumbled for my phone and realized I didn’t know where mine was, didn’t remember what I’d done with it, didn’t know where I’d left—

“Call 911!” I screamed at someone, my lungs on fire.

I was sprinting, realizing too late that I was still wearing this terrible backpack, deadweight dragging me down, and yet, for some reason, it didn’t occur to me to drop it, to throw it aside. The asphalt was slick underfoot, some parts of the road flooded, and I barreled through the shallow rivers, not even feeling the icy water penetrate my skin. My heart thundered in my chest as I approached the wreckage, my emotions spiraling dangerously. I was only vaguely aware of myself, only vaguely aware that I might be overreacting, that perhaps I was the wrong person for this job, that perhaps there was an adult or a doctor around who could do better, be better, but somehow I couldn’t stop, didn’t know how.

One of the cars was discernibly worse off than the other and I headed there first, yanking on the damaged driver’s side door until it opened with a miraculous groan. Inside, the driver was unconscious, her head bowed just above the steering wheel, a single line of blood trickling down her face.

Please, God, I thought. Please, please.

I reached around her, registering dimly that the airbags had not deployed, and tried to unbuckle her seat belt. It wouldn’t unlatch. I yanked at it desperately, tried to rip the thing out from its base, but it wouldn’t yield.

I heard the distant sound of sirens.

I yanked again at the seat belt, and this time, the girl stirred. She lifted her head with pronounced slowness, bleary eyes blinking open. She was maybe my age, just a kid, another kid, just a kid.

“Are you okay?” The scream of my voice startled me. “Are you all right?”

She frowned, looked around, realization dawning by painful degrees. I watched as her confusion gave way to understanding, understanding quickly giving way to a fear so profound it sent renewed horror through my body.

“Are you okay?” I said again, still hysterical. “Can you feel your legs? Do you know your name?”

“Oh my God,” she said, and clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh my God, oh my God, ohmygodohmygod ohmygod—”

“What is it? What’s wrong? The ambulance is almost here, someone called 911, don’t—”

“My parents,” she said, dropping her hands. Her face had paled. Her body had begun to tremble. “I just got my license. I’m not on the insurance yet. My parents are going to kill me, oh my God.”

Something broke in me then, broke me down. I began shaking uncontrollably, my bones like dice in a closed fist. I sagged to the ground, knees digging into the wet, gritty asphalt. “Your parents,” I said, gasping the words, “will be h-happy. So happy you’re a-alive.”

Thirteen

I heard shouting, deafening sirens, heavy, running footfalls. I dragged myself out of the way, staggered upright, headed for the sidewalk. I’d neither seen anything useful nor had I done anything of value; I did not need to leave behind my residue on the wreckage.

Besides, I hated talking to the police.

I made it to the sidewalk and stared at my feet, my heart beating erratically in my chest. I’d been fighting tears all day, all week, all year; it was exhausting. I often promised myself I’d cry them free when I got home, that I’d find a safe place to experience my anguish in full, and yet, I seldom did. It was not an exciting extracurricular activity, not the sort of thing most kids looked forward to upon arriving home from school. So I held them in. They remained here, unshed and overfilling my chest, pressing painfully against my sternum. Always threatening.