Page 37 of Near Miss

I catch up just as she ducks inside.

It’s a closet full of random shit, and one sad, dusty light hanging from the ceiling.

“Greer,” I say, voice low, reaching forward to grab her shoulder, but she whips around, the stupid glass plaque raised in one hand, her other finding her chest.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” I hold my hands up, before reaching behind me and gently closing the door so it’s just us in here. “What’s wrong?”

“Tachycardia. Dyspnea. Paresthesia.”

“Greer”—I palm my jaw—“I don’t know what that means.”

She pushes her shoulders back against the concrete wall of the closet. “Accelerated heart rate. Shortness of breath. Pins and needles in your hands and fingers.”

“What—”

She exhales, nostrils flaring, before taking in a gulp of air. “Panic attack.”

I reach for her, but this sob catches in her throat, and my hand flexes uselessly in midair instead. I don’t know how to help her. I take the plaque from her hand and set it on the ground before standing back up and leaning my head down so we’re eye level. Her eyes—usually effervescent, cunning, beautiful—they’re wide and she looks like a startled deer. “What happened? I need you to tell me what happened so I can try to fix it.”

“The glass shattering.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “It sounded like the window—when the window shattered.”

“No window shattered,” I tell her, leaning forward and grabbing her chin. She looks like she’s going to dislocate her fucking neck.

Greer opens her eyes, nodding up at me with flared nostrils and tears streaming down her face. “It did. In the car accident.”

“Car accident,” I repeat, letting go of her chin and grabbing her shoulders. “You might have been in a car accident before, but it wasn’t tonight, okay?”

Her voice cracks. “But I heard it. And now I can feel it.”

She presses her hand to her chest, shifts back and forth on her feet, like she’s trying to shake something off and she can’t because it won’t let her go no matter how hard she tries.

I drop my forehead to hers. “How can I help you? Tell me what you need.”

“My Lorazepam. I don’t have my meds. I don’t—”

I pull back. “Are they in your purse? I’ll go get it.”

She shakes her head again, a tiny jerk of a movement. “No. No. I didn’t—I didn’t bring them. I didn’t think—”

I hate how she looks right now. I fucking hate seeing her like this. “Okay, what can I do? What do you need?”

“I need you to tell me what you see. What you feel in the room.” She gasps and pushes her hand against her chest. The other grips my arm through my suit. “The water. I can feel the water on my legs.”

I shake my head, dropping down to my knees and grabbing her calves through her dress. “There’s no water, Greer. Do you feel my hands?”

She’s still shaking her head, hand finding my shoulder and her nails digging in. “I can—”

“Breathe.”

She inhales and her shoulders shudder.

“Breathe. There’s no water. It’s just me touching you.” I move my hands just under the hem of her dress, wrapping each one around her calves and pressing my palms into her skin. “Do you feel my hands?”

She squeezes her eyes shut again, but she nods.

“Eyes on me.” I press my thumb into her calf and start moving it in small circles. “Greer, open your eyes. Look at me.”

Her eyelashes flutter, but her eyes do open. They’re too bright, lined with tears.

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