"Don't sleep—ambulance's coming!" Ezra's voice was in my ear before I could form a full thought. "Ezra?" I tried to say it like my name mattered. My mouth tasted of metal and rain. "Keep your eyes open. Tell me your birthday." He yanked me across the wet asphalt and shoved my head down. "Focus on me." "Birthday?" I laughed, a broken sound. "You're testing me?" "August thirteenth. Stay with me." He slid his phone out and barked into it like someone who meant business. Someone shouted. Sirens screamed closer. The sedan behind me was a crumpled mess and glass glittered across the road. My jacket was soaked. Pain lanced through my left shoulder when I moved my arm. Ezra swore—sharp and controlled. "You're a mess," he said. The words were blunt. He didn't say sorry, and that was better. "Funny," I managed. "Thank you. You saved me." "You can thank the driver," he said. "He's still on his knees by the trunk." "Who's the driver? You?" I tried to smile and failed. Everything tilted. "Stay with me, Camila." He didn't use my last name and I liked him for it. He put his hand over mine. It was the first time I noticed how large his fingers were, how steady. An EMT shoved between us then guided me onto a stretcher. "We need you to breathe with us," she said. The routine felt clinical and clean. Ezra stepped back