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“Alisha?”

Charlotte was still crying in the background.

“Alisha. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

Nothing.

I didn’t remember parking.

I didn’t remember running.

I only saw the car folded around the tree.

And her inside it.

I pulled at the driver’s side door, but it wouldn’t budge. So I leaned in through the broken window.

“Alisha. Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

There was blood on her temple. A thin line at first. Then more, trailing down across her cheek and dripping onto her collarbone.

I pressed my fingers to her neck, but I couldn’t tell if I felt anything or if my own pulse was pounding too violently in my ears.

“Please don’t leave me,” I begged.“I can’t do this without you.”

Her head shifted slightly.

Or maybe it didn’t.

“Sir, step back.”

I hadn’t heard the EMTs arrive, but suddenly, there were hands on my shoulders and flashlights cutting through the dark.

Voices. Controlled. Urgent.

“I’m her husband,” I said, like that meant something. Like that gave me authority over what was happening.

“We’ve got her,” someone said.

They eased me back.

“No,” I said.“No, she’s still—she’s still breathing.”

Or maybe she wasn’t.

I couldn’t actually tell.

“Sir, we need space.”

As if this was something that could be managed. Organized. Reversed.

And then I heard Charlotte again.

My fourteen-month-old baby, strapped into her car seat.

Crying.

High, panicked sobs.