Tires screamed—then metal tore through air.
"I can't—" I don't finish the sentence. My compact jolts like it's been caught by a fist. The world slams sideways. Glass starbursts across my lap. The steering wheel slams into my ribs. My phone bounces across the passenger seat and shatters against the door.
"Call an ambulance!" someone yells close enough that I hear the saliva in their voice.
"Don't move—stay still!" another voice orders. Sharp. Certain.
The horn keeps screaming somewhere behind me. A crash of other engines, a high, animal sound from a car I can't see. Then a new sound: metal folding on metal, a long, wet crunch.
"I think the other car flipped!" a kid shouts.
"Who—who ran the light?" a woman asks, panic wanting an answer.
A hand—cold, then hot—presses against my temple. Pain stabs. I taste copper.
"Can you hear me? Kataleya, answer me." The voice is urgent. Close. Female.
"My name—" I try to form the syllable. My jaw doesn't cooperate.
"She's breathing," someone says. "Get a blanket, get something under her head."
A shadow leans into the windshield. Fingers rake the glass away. Rain of glass sprinkles down my cheeks like shards of snow. The world narrows to a tunnel of light and noise.
"Open the door," a man orders. "We need to get her out."
"Don't move her if her neck is injured," another voice counters. "Stabilize, call—"
"There's someone
