Fingertips

            Everything is nothing until you make it into something; that’s what Nina loves about baking. Flour doesn’t taste like much until combined with a few other things and then put into a very, very hot box. The next time you see it, it has completely transformed; it has become something that people will lust over and praise you for. While it’s technically the product of chemistry, Nina prefers to think of it as the closest thing humans have to magic. To her, the knowledge of how to build this food is the most sacred that we have and have passed down. Following the steps of a recipe is merely invoking it once again.

            She hears the argument rumbling down the stairs before she can make out any specific words. Her father’s voice rumbles like he’s part bulldog, and her mother is all high-pitched squealing and uncompromising wit. Nina dips the whisk into the bowl of dry ingredients sitting in front of her and begins to stir. White powder into more white powder; it looks like nothing because it still is nothing. Nina realizes she’s left her ring on when a cloud of flour puffs up. Tiny granules of it find their way into the flawed diamond. She pulls it off and drops it into her pocket.

            “I just don’t understand why you have to go today,” her mother says. “It doesn’t make sense.”

            “You’re only saying that because it wasn’t your idea,” her father says. “If it was your job to keep the school running, you wouldn’t want me to complain about it.”

            “But it’s Saturday,” her mother says. “Can’t you wait until tomorrow?”

            Nina walks the short distance to the fridge and grabs the butter. She warms it with the palms of her hands and then unwraps it and drops it into the mixing bowl. Pouring the sugar in after the butter, Nina turns on the mixer and steps back to let it do its work.

            “. . . besides, I’ll get in trouble if I leave it until tomorrow,” she hears her father say.

            “Who will know?” her mother says.

            Nina hears a familiar clapping sound and knows her father has let his hands flop to his sides in a dramatic, helpless gesture. “There are people all over that school all the time,” he says. “If something happens, chances are I won’t be the first person to know.”

            Her mother’s voice drops, and Nina doesn’t hear what she says next. Nina steps forward and turns off the mixer. She scrapes the sides of the bowl and then goes to the fridge to get the milk. While she measures it out with the other wet ingredients, she hears her parents’ conversation continue.

            “Please, John,” her mother says, “it’s Daisy’s birthday.”

            Nina doesn’t see her father roll his eyes, but she knows instinctively that he does this. He starts to respond, “I told you, I have to—“

            “Go to the school, I know,” her mother says. “But we both know that’s not where you’re going.”

            Nina whisks the wet ingredients until they begin to come together. “That’s such bullshit, and you know it,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” Nina hears the door open. She pours a third of the dry ingredients into the mixing bowl.

            “John—“ her mother says, but the door slams before she gets out the rest. Nina hears her sigh, and the silence that follows is harder to listen to than the argument. She sets the mixer on a lower setting and alternates between adding the wet and dry ingredients to the bowl.

            “Nina, love?” her mother says as she walks into the room.

            “Yeah, mom?” Nina says without looking up.

            “How is the cake coming?”

            “Good, mom,” Nina says. “I think it’ll be good.”

            She looks over to see her mother nodding.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Nina says.

            “I’m not,” her mother says. “I’m not worried about it.”

            Nina stops the mixer to add the last of the dry ingredients and fold them in. She notices that her mother’s fingers have started to rap the counter. Nina glances from the skeletal hand to her mother’s face. She never realized it before, but her mother has excellent cheekbones. Her dark brown eyes set over those carved-out features gives her a hawk-like look. Nina starts to feel sick, so she focuses on dividing the cake batter between cake pans.

            “Daisy’s going to have a good birthday, mom,” she says. “Don’t worry about that, either.”

            Her mother snaps out of her trance. “Why would you say that?” she says. “Why would I be worried?”

            Nina quickly shakes her head. “No reason.”

            “Good, good, because nothing is wrong. We’re going to have a wonderful day.”

            Nina slips the cakes pans into the oven and says nothing.

~

            When Nina puts on her dress for the party, she feels an exhaustion that she hasn’t experienced in a long time. Maybe not since her senior trip in high school, when her entire class went to the local amusement park. Nina, like everyone else, had insisted she was too old for the trip and was just using it as an excuse to not be in class. However, as soon as they got there, the seniors dispersed as though they had never been to such a paradise before. The day flew by in a haze of funnel cake, sunscreen, and wooden rollercoasters, and when the new adults climbed back onto the bus at the end of the day, it all felt like a dream. The final strains of their responsibility-free youth had been pushed through their pores, and everyone was left feeling spent and wondering what had just happened.

            This is the exhaustion that Nina feels now. Her feet hurt from standing all day, her shoulders are stiff from the posture of uncertainty, and her knees are about to buckle underneath her. She struggles to zip up the back of her dress by herself. It is different now, though; When she was on that bus, she had the hopefulness that is an eighteen-year-old surrounded by friends, four years of college in front of her.

            She pulls at the dress’s skirt and then exits the room she shares with her little sister. Daisy almost runs into her as soon as she crosses the threshold.
            “Careful,” Nina says, holding out her hands as if to stop her. But Daisy can’t be stopped. She pushes Nina out of the way and runs into the backyard. The doorbell rings and Nina goes to answer it.

            “Hi!” she says, hoping her enthusiasm will mask the fact that she has no idea who she is talking to.

            “Hi!” a blonde woman says back. She pushes her daughter into the house, past Nina.

            “Um, come on in,” Nina says. She smiles and tries to remember where she has seen this woman before.

            “Oh, you have a . . . lovely home,” the woman says. She glances from the rip in the couch to the worn carpet in the hallway.

            “Thank you,” Nina says. She scratches her elbow.

            “Where should I put this?” the woman says, handing Nina a beautifully-wrapped pink present.

             “Oh, I’ll take it,” Nina says. She turns and the woman lets herself into the house. Nina watches as she crosses to the back door and slides it open. Nina sets the present on the mantle over the fireplace and walks into the kitchen. She wrings her hands and puts one on the fridge. Then she hears the doorbell again.

            “Nina?” her mom yells from across the house.

            “Mom?”

            “Can you get that?”

            Nina glances at the counter. She goes to the fridge and pulls out the platter of celery and carrots. “I can’t, mom, I’m busy.”

            She hears her mother swear as she makes her way to the door. Her mother never had the patience to learn how to walk in heels, so her feet make a comforting clomping sound on the hardwood floors. Then silence falls as she prepares herself to greet the next mom.

            The door opens. “Hi, guys!” her mother says.

            “Hi, Cathy, how are you?” a startlingly deep voice responds.

            “I’m doing well, thank you,” her mother says. Nina squeezes her eyelids closed. “Come on in.” The door shuts again.

            Nina hears her mother come into the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she says.

            Nina wraps her fingers around the sides of the platter. “I’m . . .”
            “Take that out to the backyard!” her mother says. Nina grabs the plate and carries it outside. She sets it on the table and anxiously glances around the party. She doesn’t have a peer in sight. Nina feels the sweat drip down her spine and her bare legs start to itch. She pulls her heel out of her shoe and rubs it against the opposite ankle. Then she hears it: a blood-curdling scream fills the yard and Nina’s eyes latch onto the source of the noise.

            Her sister is lying on the ground, clutching her leg. Her black hair is spread out underneath her like a spider. Her enchanting green eyes are scrunched closed in pain, although she isn’t crying. Nina runs towards her.

            Daisy is screaming, not she isn’t screaming words. “Daisy, what happened?” Nina says, but she can see for herself. There is a long gash running down the middle of her sister’s leg, and Nina feels the urge to lean down and try to close it up with her hands. She looks around, but can’t find the cause of the accident.

            “What happened?” she says again. Then, “I’ll get mom.”

            Nina stands up and feels the blood rush to her head. She takes a few steps towards the house, and then stops before she reaches the back door. Here, she leans to the left and vomits the entire contents of her stomach into the bushes. Then she heads inside.

            “Mom!” Nina screams. She can hear her voice crack. “Daisy’s hurt! She needs you! Mom!”

            Her mother appears from the hallway. “What?”

            “Daisy’s hurt! She’s needs a doctor, or something! She’s bleeding!”

            “Oh my god!” Nina’s mother runs past her and into the yard where Daisy is laid out. Nina can feel the fear run though her, but her mother is surprisingly steady. She turns to one of the women present. “Call an ambulance.” The woman pulls out her phone. “Nina?”

            “Yeah, mom?” Nina says. The tears are starting to leak from Daisy’s eyes, and Nina looks away so she doesn’t follow suit.

            “Go get your father,” her mother says.

            “What? But, mom—“

            “Just go do it.”

            Despite everything, an awkward silence stirs between them. “At the school?” Nina says.

            Her mother looks up and into her eyes. “You know perfectly well where he is,” she says.

            Nina nods and turns to go. When she reaches the back door, Nina hears the other mother say, “An ambulance is on its way.”

~

            Nina isn’t sure if it makes her sadder that the bar is virtually empty. She hasn’t been here many times, but as soon as she walks in, the bartender makes eye contact with her and nods. There are a few cracked barstools that line the counter, as well as a booth that looks like it hasn’t been scrubbed down in weeks. The light is dim the way it is in bad cop movies. Nina makes her way to the end of the bar to where her father sits.

            “Dad,” she says. He doesn’t look up. “Dad,” she says again. He still doesn’t look up. She walks forward and climbs onto the barstool next to him. The bartender walks over and puts a glass of water in front of her. Then he retreats.

            Nina puts her hand on her father’s arm. “Dad,” she says, “you need to come home. Daisy’s hurt.”

            Her father looks at her, and at first his expression is horror. But as he surveys her, his lips slowly crack into a smile. “What do you mean?” he says.

            “Daisy did something at her party, and when I left she was bleeding all over the yard.”

            His smile doesn’t falter. “But Daisy’s so little. What could have happened at her birthday party?”

            Nina picks up her glass and takes a large sip. Then she says, “Dad. Listen to me. You need to come home.”
            He leans forward onto the bar and rubs his forehead with his hand. “Yeah,” he says.

            She wants to slap him. “Dad, I’m not kidding.” Still he doesn’t move from his barstool. “Dad, I’m not fucking around. You really need to come home. Now.”

            His head snaps to the right. “Don’t use that kind of language around your father,” he says.

            “I’ll use whatever kind of language I want,” she says.

            His eyes flash. “Not around me.”

            “Fine,” she says. “Then come home and punish me, or whatever. Just come home.”

            He reaches forward and strokes the sides of the pint in front of him. “I don’t think I can,” he says.

            “You can,” Nina says. “Now get up.”

            “You don’t understand,” he says. “There’s so much—“
            “I don’t care!” Nina says. “I don’t care about your life problems or your marital issues or your midlife crisis. I care that my sister is gushing blood in our backyard, and you don’t seem to give a shit.”

            Her father stares at her. His cheeks turn red.

            “So are you coming, or not?” Nina says.

            Her father says nothing. He swallows and looks down at the bar in front of him.

            Nina stands up. “I don’t have time for this. We’ll be in the ER. You’ll regret this when you sober up,” she says.

            She turns and walks towards the exit. She makes eye contact with the bartender, who nods at her. Her hands barely feel the door when she throws it open.

~

            Her mom texts her from the emergency room as Nina drives back home. Things are relatively under control, but she needs her as soon as possible. Can she grab Daisy’s stuffed giraffe and a few other things from the house before heading over? Nina agrees and gets to it.

            The house is eerily empty for being so colorfully decorated. The food that she and her mom set out is still in the process of being disturbed, even though no one is left to eat it. Purple streamers sag over the doorway to the kitchen, embarrassed that they are left without anyone to notice them. Nina runs to her sister’s room and grabs the stuffed animal in question. Then she collects the few other things her mom requested and heads to the kitchen. She drops everything on the counter and goes to get a bag from under the sink. Nina quickly packs it and throws it over her shoulder. Then she goes to the fridge to get a couple cold bottles of water.

            When she opens it, she freezes. There, staring back at her, is the cake she spent all day making and decorating. It mocks her with its rounded edges and garish yellow frosting. She is tempted to take a chunk of it in her hand and throw it to the floor. But no, her sister might remember it later and want it. There is no point in being wasteful; This has been a tough enough birthday as it is.

            Still, the cake feels like an unexpected weight in her stomach. She reaches forward and pushes it farther back into the fridge. Somehow, this move makes the nausea subside a little. Nina slams the fridge closed. She is out the door and back in her car in thirty seconds. It’s difficult to remember to drive slowly.

            That bright yellow cake is still in the back of her mind as Nina nears the ER, though. Learning to bake was the moment Nina realized the power at her fingertips. She has control over this magic of chemistry; she can cobble together joy by combining what doesn’t naturally exist side by side. Nina contains this old knowledge and calls it back when things are hard. Everything is nothing until you make it into something. 

Three Years Gone

            Her fingers grasp for the car door handle. They miss. She redirects them again and again, until she finally gets ahold of it. Her hand slips around the warm, green metal and she sighs in relief. She pulls the door open and slumps into the driver’s seat. She wants to rest her head against the steering wheel and close her eyes, but she knows she will fall asleep if she does. Justine gazes at her face in the rearview mirror, her eyes’ reflection swimming in front of her. She knows she would feel better if she threw up, but she can’t bring herself to stick her fingers down her throat. She pulls the door closed.

            Justine surprises herself with how quickly her key is able to find the ignition. She turns it and lets go automatically, feeling the car come to life like an old friend. She glances up at the rearview mirror, then looks over her shoulder, then can’t quite remember which is more acceptable when she is backing up. Her foot finds the gas and she manages to inch the car out of its parking space.

            A hand smacks her window. She looks over and sees that it’s her friend, Ted, who apparently followed her up off the beach. He motions for her to roll it down. She complies.

            “What do you think you’re doing?” he says, lunging forward so that the whole of his weight is resting on her car.

            “I’m just . . . I just need to go . . .” Justine says, her body leaning away from his.

            “Not in that state, you don’t,” he says, and pulls the car door open. He grabs her by the elbow and starts to lift her out.

            “Stop . . .” she says, trying to pull her arm away. “I mean it, I need to go . . .”

            Ted pulls her into a standing position and moves so that their faces are inches from one another. Behind his head, Justine can see the sun start to go down. The thick sea salt scent travels over the air and the sound of waves is punctuated by the laughter of their friends, who are still out on the sand. If Justine didn’t know any better, she would think they are about to kiss.

            “No, you don’t. You’ve had too much to drink. You need to come back with me.” Ted grabs her hand and starts pulling her back towards the beach.

            “Stop . . . I . . . Lauren needs me to get her . . . I need to go . . .” But Ted isn’t listening to her. He grabs her elbow with his other hand and jerks her forward. She stumbles. “Stop,” she says again. She turns and grabs the side of her car.

            “Stop being so difficult,” he says. “Come on, Justine, just come with me. Lauren will be fine.”

            “No, she needs me . . . I told you . . .” Ted’s hands slip off her arms for a second, and Justine takes advantage of the opening. She curls back and then strikes him as hard as she can on the side of his face. In her half-aware state, Justine is surprised by the way the slap makes her hand sting.

            Ted steps back and clutches his face. “You fucking bitch,” he says. His eyes rake over her and she finds herself looking away. She shrugs. “Fine, you’re on your own. It’s your fucking funeral. I’m not going to drag you away.” He turns and starts walking back.

            Justine presses down the urge to run after him, to explain that she didn’t really mean it, she just needed him to stop. But she is suddenly aware of how tired her legs are. She sits back down in the driver’s seat and closes her eyes. She thinks about the way Lauren’s black hair moves when it is hit by a breeze, and she feels the purr of the car beneath her. She gathers her legs into the car and closes the door again.

            When the car is moving at a consistent speed, Justine starts to calm down. Her hands still shake at the wheel, and the trucks that pass on the other side of the median are blurry, but Justine thinks she can deal. It is easier now that she is doing it.

            Drinking that day happened the way it always does: Justine barely realized she was doing it until she was three drinks in. It’s not something she thinks about anymore. Whenever she goes somewhere and alcohol is an option, she always partakes. Does she want something to drink? Why yes, when does she not?

            Justine likes to tell herself it is just a fun activity. She can be in a group of people she barely knows, and she can count on a few shots of tequila to smooth out the edges of her social anxiety. It is all right, it has to be. It is always all right.

            Her fingers curl around the steering wheel. She had second thoughts about driving in this condition, but she didn’t know what else to do. Her daughter called her, she needed her, and so Justine is on her way. Her hand trembles as she reaches up to sweep her bangs out of her eyes.

            Then it appears. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the harsh white vehicle sitting at the side of the road. Justine is suddenly very aware of the steady pounding of her heart. She shifts her hands around the steering wheel, reaching over to the gear shift and clutching it. The pressure of anxiety creeps up the back of her neck. Her breathing grows shallow. She tries not to stare at the police car, but she can’t help it. Her eyes keep shifting over.

            Justine starts to panic. She knows the policeman can tell something is wrong with her. What is it? Is she swerving across the center line? She steps on the brake, and then quickly steps off. She doesn’t want him to think she has been speeding. Her stomach twists. Justine sets her eyes on the road in front of her.

            She begins praying that the cop is male. Justine figures she should decide now the lengths to which she is willing to go to get out of a DUI. The thought of it makes her tear up, but she has to be strong. She made her decision when she got into the driver’s seat. She taps her left foot on the floor. She passes the car, watching in the rearview mirror for the lights to turn on and the siren to shriek.

            And nothing happens. Because of course nothing happens. Justine continues driving and the police car doesn’t take off after her. The insides of her brain feel fuzzy and frayed. The sides of the road blur and her eyelids start to droop. Justine taps her head against the window to wake herself back up.

            She is surprised when she arrives at the house. How did she get here? She glances around and reaches out for the door handle. She closes her eyes, pressing her lids together as hard as she can. This haze needs to go away. She takes a deep breath. Justine fumbles with the handle before pulling it open. She slips out.

            The ground is farther than she anticipates, and Justine stumbles to plant her feet underneath her. Finally figuring it out, she braces herself against the open car door and looks around. The front door is distant, but she thinks she can make it. She takes a step in that direction.

            Another step, and another. They might be a little zigzagged, but Justine is doing okay. Then she feels it coming, tastes the warm saliva that fills her mouth. She has seconds to stumble to the patch of tulips lining the driveway. Justine leans down and vomits all over their carefully-cultivated white petals.

            After what feels like the entire contents of her stomach is covering the flowers, Justine straightens up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She looks around. Across the street, a blonde woman and her golden retriever are standing completely still. She stares at Justine and Justine stares back. Justine doesn’t know what to do. She raises a shaky hand in a halfhearted greeting. The blonde woman gives her a dirty look and continues walking. She tugs the dog along behind her, as though afraid it might be infected by Justine’s classless behavior.

            Justine’s head starts to pound. She really should have stayed better hydrated. She runs her fingers through her hair and tries to make it neat. Justine fixes her eyes on the front door of the house. She makes a beeline toward it without tearing her gaze away.

            When she knocks on the door, she knows she does so too forcefully. Justine can feel the rap on the wood ring through her knuckles. The door flies open.

            A tall redhead stands in the doorway. She is solidly built, and her complexion is flawless. She has fantastically blue eyes, but the look behind them is hard and calculating. Her gaze passes over Justine’s appearance. She seems to take in the rumpled clothing and the beads of sweat causing hair to stick to her forehead. “Mrs. Montgomery?” she says.

            Justine nods. “Yeah, that’s me.” She tastes the vomit on her breath and wonders if this woman can smell it. She looks as though it would be difficult to get something like that past her. 

            “Lauren?” the woman calls into the house. “Your mother’s here.” She returns her gaze to Justine. One hand is placed on either side of the doorframe. Her stance is set in a casual manner, although her legs looks tense. Justine suddenly gets the urge to put both hands on her chest and push her backwards. She wants to see what the woman looks like off-balance.

            Lauren bounds up behind her. Her brown eyes lock on her mother, and Justine watches as the spark fades out of them. She holds out her hand. “Come on, sweetie, time to go.”

            The woman at the door exchanges a look with Lauren. Justine can’t quite read it. Lauren shrugs her slim shoulders and ducks under the woman’s arm. She ignores Justine’s outstretched fingers and walks past her. Justine smiles at the woman, who closes the front door. She whirls around and tries to catch up with her daughter.

            “Well, you’re welcome for coming to get you,” she says, louder than she intends.

            “You didn’t have to,” Lauren says. “I would have found another ride.”

            Justine blinks. “What?” she says. “You said you needed me.”

            Lauren puts her hand on the passenger door handle and studies her mother. “You knew where I was. What did you think had happened?”

            Justine puts her hand on her forehead. “Fuck, Lauren.”

            “I’m sorry,” Lauren says, pulling the door open and heaving herself inside. “I don’t know why it’s such a big deal, though.”

            Justine doesn’t respond and gets back into the driver’s seat. She sits there and takes a deep breath.

            “What?” Lauren asks. “What is it?”

            Justine shakes her head and turns the car on. Putting it in reverse, she speeds backwards and narrowly misses the trashcans lined up on the street.

            “Kind of cutting it close, aren’t we?” Lauren says. Justine still doesn’t say anything. “Look, mom, I don’t know what you want me to say. Izzy and I got in a fight. I needed to get out of there.”

            The world starts to swirl in front of Justine’s eyes. She squints at the street signs she passes, and then slams on the brakes when she almost runs a red light.

            “Jesus, mom, watch out,” Lauren says. She leans forward and turns the radio on. The upbeat pop beats infect Justine’s world and make her feel lost. She wants to close her eyes and clap her hands over her ears. Her shaky fingers reach out and turn it back off. She hears Lauren sigh loudly in the seat next to her and slump down.

            The light turns green and Justine puts her foot on the accelerator. She misjudges the amount of force she needs to use and feels the car lurch forward. Pulling the wheel to the right to compensate for this unexpected start, Justine thinks she has fixed the problem. Then she hears Lauren yell, “Mom!” and she slams on her brakes. It is too late.

            The side of the car smashes into the side of a parked minivan, and Justine feels the impact force her right shoulder backward. Lauren’s screams drown out the rest of the noise, and then catch in her throat. The car jolts to a stop.

            Breathing heavily, Justine tries to get her world straight. A streak of blood runs down the side of Lauren’s forehead, but other than that she appears unharmed. “What the hell was that, mom?” she screams.

            “I—I don’t know. Are you okay?” Justine says, reaching out to her daughter.

            “Don’t touch me!” Lauren screams. “I’m fine, I just want to get out. Just let me out!”

            Justine opens her door and stumbles out. Lauren climbs over into the driver’s seat and follows behind her. She grabs her mom’s hand and pulls her around the side of the car and up onto the sidewalk.

            “Mom, what do we do?” Lauren’s eyes are pleading and desperate.

            “I don’t know, I—“ Justine surveys the accident. Fear starts to crumble in her stomach. She looks back at Lauren. “Please don’t tell your father.”
            “What are you talking about? Of course we have to tell dad!” Lauren pulls out her phone. "I think I’m going to call the police,” she says.

            “Don’t, I—“ Justine runs her hands through her hair.

            Lauren stares at her. “What’s wrong with you, mom?”

            “Nothing, I just don’t . . . I don’t want to get in trouble.”

            Understanding replaces the confusion littered across Lauren’s face. “Please tell me you didn’t,” she says.

            Justine’s eyes flicker to Lauren’s and she raises her shoulders in a small shrug.

            “What the hell is wrong with you?” Lauren screams. “How could you do that to me and dad?”

            “I didn’t do anything to you two on purpose,” Justine says. “I just . . . I just went to a party.”

            “You went to a party?” Lauren says, her eyes bugging out of her head.

            “Yeah, it was just like this beach party that one of my old work colleagues was having. It was fine.”

            Lauren throws her hands up and gestures toward the wrecked vehicle. “Clearly it wasn’t fine! Clearly we’re back where we were three years ago!” She closes her eyes and drops her hands to massage her neck. “You went to a beach party,” she says, under her voice. “God, how old are you?”

            “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

            Lauren shakes her head and looks up at the sky. “You never mean for any of it to happen.”

            A crowd is forming across the street. They are pointing and talking amongst themselves, and a man steps forward. “Are you guys okay?” he yells. Justine looks back and forth between him and her daughter and then gives him a halfhearted thumbs up.

            “You said you needed me, so I came running!” Justine says.

            Lauren’s lip trembles. “So this is my fault?” she says, her voice cracking. “Mom, I can’t do this again.” She turns and starts to walk down the sidewalk, away from her mother.

            “Wait!” Justine yells after her. “Where are you going? How are you going to get home? It’s not safe!”

            Lauren’s shoulders are heaving. She looks back around and wipes the blood off her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s safer than being with you,” she says. Justine’s hands fall to her sides. Lauren keeps walking, and Justine doesn’t run after her.

            She turns and sits down on the curb next to her car. She stares at the twisted metal that locks the machines together, the hood of hers raised as though in shock. If she looks at the vehicles long enough, they start to seem as though they were formed together, placed to exist with their lives intertwined. If she tries hard enough, Justine can convince herself that they wanted it this way, that one hadn’t smashed into the other and mangled its unsuspecting flesh.

Justine brings her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. She closes her eyes and waits for the police to arrive.