Page 99 of Tipping Point

It’s seconds.

When the turn comes, I breathe out and close my eyes.

The car smashes into the wall at full speed.

I don’t see it, but the metal crumples like paper, sparks scattering through the air. The car ricochets off the barrier, flipping twice, scattering debris like confetti through the air. The smell of fuel is everywhere, and when it ignites, it gives off instant, unbearable heat.

Luckily, I miss the whole thing.

* * *

FINN

I claw my way to consciousness, slow and angry, unapologetic. I’m in a hospital bed, the room dark, the machines hooked up to me making a soft electronic buzz.

Like a ton of bricks, things fall into the void left by unconsciousness.

The smell of the fire, chemicals. That broken feeling where you know that the pain of it will come crashing into you soon as soon as you run out of adrenaline. And then being dragged from the car, the helmet bumping across the tarred road, the suit snagging at the debris strewn everywhere.

It was a spectator.

A ruddy, middle-aged man, and his shirt read “Hold my beer.”

I had trouble reading it upside down, because he was bent over me, hands hooked under my arms, dragging me away. A second later he collapsed, arms over his head, as the car exploded. When he looked back, I could see the inferno of it mirrored in his eyes. Twin points of flames.

If I hadn’t unclipped my harness, he wouldn’t have gotten me out in time.

As my heart rate climbs, so do the protestations of a machine hooked up to me.

I rip off the sensors that had been stuck on my chest. The machine flat lines, and I hear an alarm go off at a nurses’ station down the hall.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jack grunts from the dark beside me. He stumbles upright, swatting around for a light switch.

When I take up the control hooked up to the bed, he snatches it from me angrily and does it himself.

The yellow light that spills over us a moment later casts him in a sickly glow. He has dark circles under his eyes, and I watch as his face grows red.

He’s angry.

Good. So am I.

“What the fuck?” we both say at the same time.

“Don’t you fuckin’ start with me, Brennan.” He swivels a finger right up under my nose. He’s trembling all over. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

And then he softens. He wipes at his eyes, grabs me in a bear hug, and leaves the room.

And then the pain sets in.

Three days’ worth of it.

It’s always been absurd to me how fast the body heals. On the first day, my ribs are unbearable. On the second, I marvel at how my collarbone has stolen the show. On the third, it’s my muscles that protest at every movement.

On the fourth day, I sign myself out.

The doctor isn’t happy, but he’s willing to accommodate me. Anything to get me out. The nurses all hate me, and the army of paparazzi and journalists at the hospital entrance is driving everyone insane.

Jack comes to fetch me. On the entire drive to the airport, he doesn’t speak a word to me.

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