by Dyan Brown
All too soon, I’m pulled away from Grayson’s imaginary embrace… yet again. Now, I’m being thrown around in the waves that never suffocate me. Each time I drift, I become more aware of it, and now—the fourth time—it seems like the most natural thing in the world. I almost sense it’s coming. As I toss about for a while longer, a slight anticipation comes over me.
Maybe I’ll get to deliver another baby!
I know it’s unlikely, but a girl can hope. Then, there’s a pinch of fear that this will be another event like what I experienced with Jack and Tessa. I can’t be pessimistic, though. I know myself, and if I think that way, it’ll consume me.
No matter what, I know I’m going to help someone, and that drives me. I wait eagerly for a chance to drift. I know Uncle Carl won’t like it, but all in due time. I want to learn how to do this better before he tries to tell me I can’t. Afterward, I’ll let him know this is what I want to do. It may have ruined his life, but I’ll make it mine.
The waves start to recede, and I steady myself on my feet. I bubble a little when I hear the low rumble of cars whizzing by. It could be another baby. If so, I won’t need as much help from 911 this time. When I’ve done something once, I can always repeat it. That’s why I was so good at school. Well, that and self-isolation, which leaves a ton of time for studying.
I start to see the dark highway come into focus, and I look around. No car with flashers. No nothing. Just normal cars, passing at seventy-plus miles per hour on a too-dark stretch of city highway.
“All right, what now?”
I wait for the pull that lets me know where I should go, but there’s nothing there. No sensation of need forcing my body in a direction. The only feeling I have is the same I had after I delivered Angelica: like I’m being watched—very carefully examined by someone.
I wonder if that’s just a part of drifting. Maybe God’s watching to make sure I do His work. I reach up for my locket, but it’s not there. I guess it’s not a part of my soul, even though it may feel that way.
I reach around for my braid instead, starting to twist the end of my long hair. Even in a French braid, it’s still long enough that I can examine the end. It’s red—like, bright red. How have I never noticed this before? My hair has gone from auburn to high-definition, fire-engine red. I look more like Jessica Rabbit than any version of Irish Betty Boop.
What the hell?
Just then, a dog barks from the other side of the road. I look up, locking eyes with a brown-and-white mutt across the grassy median and three lanes of traffic. He starts to head toward me.
“No,” I scream over the cars, holding my hand up to try to stop him, but he isn’t stopping. As I look at the oncoming traffic, the possibility of him getting hit makes my throat close. I wave my arms uselessly at the cars flying between us, no one even shows a sign of tapping the break.
If there are times people can’t see me, then maybe I can’t get hurt? It could be I’m supposed to stop him from causing an accident? I can’t let him get killed, either. It hurts to think—to know—what will happen if that poor dog comes out in the road. All God’s creatures, right? Without another thought, I start forward to save him and whoever may hit him.
I cross from the overgrown median and stand on the edge of the left lane. If I can make it to the far side, I can push the dog off the road. The cars are coming at me too fast—so much faster than I’d thought. I’m about to find out very quickly if I’m truly invincible as I see a large SUV heading for me.
Twenty feet away—fifteen feet—ten feet. The headlights are so bright I’m beginning to realize what happens to deer. I’m paralyzed. I thought I was strong, but I’m not.
Five feet. They don’t see me. They would’ve swerved by now. Three feet…
A feeling in my stomach pulls with a formidable force, and I’m thrown backward and out of the path of the speeding Suburban. I can hear a loud, deafening shriek. It’s all consuming, and it never ends. I’m blinded, and I can’t see the dog anymore. There’s something tight and binding around my arms. The shrieking keeps going.
I feel a hand come up and cover my mouth. Someone’s behind me, holding me. The shrieking is drowned out by a ‘Shh’ sound in my ear. “Not yet, Sam. You’re not supposed to save the dog.”
I grow still at the sound of his voice, my eyes still clamped against the traffic. It’s the most serene sound I’ve ever heard. It sends waves of calm vibrating through me. My tightened shoulders relax against the firmness of a man’s chest. I’m instantly at peace, as if I’m drugged.
“Wait for it. You’ll know when it’s the right time. There’ll be no doubt. No maybe in your mind. Just hold on; there’s a bigger plan for you tonight. Open your eyes.”
Without thought, I follow the stranger’s command, and I instantly wish I’d kept them closed. Time slows as I watch the dog come closer to the edge of the road. I don’t want to watch this, I think, but my body will not obey the command I give it to turn away.
A small red car in the far-right lane sees the dog and turns sharply to the left. The dog disappears behind the right side of the car, and a terrifying sound precedes a desperate yelp as the car hits the dog. A jolted gasp jerks through my lungs as a sob catches in my throat.
Another dark car swipes the tail end of the red car, making it spin out of control into the onslaught of traffic. A large, dark SUV seems to turn the asphalt into the slick, polished stone of a bumper-car rink. The sound of metal on metal rends the air, and glass flies everywhere, even hitting the pavement around my feet. I can’t breathe as a small Jeep joins the carnage of mangled vehicles. The red car ends its spinning after being hit one more time, flipping into the ditch in the median. Smoke is wafting up from its engine, now pointed skyward.
A four-car pileup. I look over the other cars. Thankfully, traffic has slowed and people are getting out to help, but they’re not fast enough. There’s a stirring inside me. I need to run.
“Now, Sam! Go,” he says. He’s so close to my ear I can feel the heat of his breath slide down my neck, even in the humid evening air.
I pause to feel what is at my core. A fraction of a second later, I’m running, my feet slapping out a rapid rhythm on the pavement. I can feel the importance of what needs to be done, what I must do. I’m going faster than I thought was possible, but then again, I’m not limited by my body.
It only takes a few seconds to reach the red car. The smoke from the engine is growing and getting darker. When I get to the driver’s window, I drop down to look in. There’s a young couple inside, not much older than I am. The guy in the driver’s seat is frantically trying to get his girlfriend’s seatbelt undone.
He’s pulling and tugging as hard as he can, screaming at her to wake up and shaking her, but she’s just hanging there. Blood covers the right side of her face and the window beside her. There’s so much happening, so much noise, that it’s overwhelming.
I try his door handle, but it’s smashed closed where the first car hit it. “Shit!” I scream in frustration as I go for the backdoor. Locked.
Freaking automatic locks! I have to get them out!
“Sam! Over here,” the tall man with the amazing voice tells me. I look over and see him at the front of the car. His black T-shirt is in stark contrast to his light-colored hair, but he’s mostly a blur as I speed to where he is.
I concentrate more on the car—they need me. Without thinking, I get down on the ground and start kicking the windshield that’s already a cobweb of fractures. The tiny hairline cracks make it easier than I thought it would be to get the rest of the glass out of the frame.
“Lauren! Come on, please. Wake up, Lauren!”
The boyfriend’s panicked pleas are finally coming through the noise as the glass falls to the ground. I crawl over the windshield remnant and pull on him, but he bats me away with one arm.
“No, I’m not leaving her.” He doesn’t even look at who is pulling on him.
Pulling harder, I drag him over the busted w
indshield to the grass. “I’ve got her,” I say firmly. “Stay back.” With that, I turn and go back in for Lauren.
I grasp the seatbelt, tugging while pressing the release. Nothing. I push the buckle down into the lock, trying the release again. Jeez, the guy wasn’t just panicking. She really is stuck.
I look around to try to find something to cut the belt with. All the glass around me is too small to use as a knife. There’s a warped piece of metal nearby, and I try using that on the strap. After a few swipes, I realize I may as well be using a plastic spoon. Stopping, I inhale deeply, hoping for inspiration.
The strong smell of gas is seeping into the car, and my heart starts to pound in my head. I hurry, trying to pull again as hard as I can. I can feel myself starting to panic.
A hand reaches past me to the seatbelt’s release. “Excuse me,” he says as he punches the button. It falls open like nothing was ever wrong with it. “There ya go, Sam,” he says, as if he were helping remove the lid of a pickle jar.
Lauren topples down from her seat, still unconscious. Once she’s free, I grab her under her ribs and lift, letting my body become her gurney, keeping hers as flat as possible. Moving slowly and painfully, I go shuffle to the front of the car in an awkward crawl. I feel the sharp points of shattered glass scraping at my clothes, threatening to draw blood. When we’re clear of the hood, I get a better grip around her and run slowly back toward the other cars with her dragging at my side. No longer can I be concerned with anything but escape for the both of us.
Lauren’s boyfriend is lying on the ground forty feet back. I can see him breathing from here. Thank God. Voice-Man is kneeling beside him, but as he looks to us, he’s beside me in a blink, lifting the other side of Lauren and helping me lay her beside her boyfriend on the grass.
As soon as we get her on the ground, he pushes me face-down on top of them and makes himself the top shield to our pile of bodies. His arm covers my head as the little red car explodes in a plume of fire behind us. Heat licks all around us. Between the heat of the flames and the humidity of the night, it’s hard to pull air into my lungs. All the oxygen is sucked away, eaten by the blaze.
I expect to smell burnt flesh or to have my pajamas singed off my back, but I feel only mild warmth. It must have burned the man helping me. Once the car has slowed to a bonfire, he uncovers my head and pulls me off the couple by the arm. I look up at him as he drags me farther away from the heat of the flames.
The blond man is perfectly fine, not a single burn. Frowning at him, I’m about to ask his name, along with a whole lot of what-the-hells, but there’s another pull at my core. It’s pushing me toward where he’s leading, and it’s strong. Gathering my feet under myself, I start jogging beside him. I only have a split second to wonder if he’s another Drifter. He must be; how else would he know all this?
Yes, but… how does he know my name?
That’s too many questions for what’s going on right now. I continue to run, picking up my pace—matching his speed and then some. I’ll have to take this for what it is at the moment.
“This way, now!” I yell at him.
He looks over at me in surprise, and I think I catch a hint of a smile before we get to the Jeep.
The Jeep has flipped on its side, and the driver was thrown from the car. A woman in scrubs kneels beside him, giving him CPR. I still feel the pull to help, so I stop when I’m across from her and kneel on the other side of the man on the ground.
“What can I do?” I call out, but she doesn’t hear me. I look back over my shoulder toward the man for answers. “Why can’t she hear me?” I yell. The noise from the fire and the roar of the engines on the other side of the highway make shouting feel necessary.
“Because she doesn’t need to,” he says simply, somehow not needing to shout.
“Then how do I help?” I say over my shoulder, turning back to her.
I watch as she checks for signs of life, feeling for a pulse and putting the other hand on his chest to see if it moves on its own. Shaking her head, she starts again. She pumps down on his chest, counting to thirty as she goes, breathes gently into his mouth twice, and repeats. I don’t know what to do, so I just observe, even as I feel a pull to go even closer toward her.
The nurse does this repetition a few more times, each time shaking her head in between. After the fifth round I’ve seen, she checks her watch. “Seven minutes. Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” she mutters.
“Don’t let her stop,” he shouts behind me.
I shoot a look at him in confusion. “How, telepathy?” My sarcastic side bursts forth in anger.
He gestures his hand toward her. “Make her. Control her.”
Glancing back, I watch the nurse check the man’s eyes to see if they dilate before checking her watch again.
The blond man is suddenly beside me, and I look up at him. “Could you be more cryptic?” For the first time tonight, he’s standing beneath the light, and I can see his face and his blue-purple eyes. For a second, I forget what I’m doing, what’s going on, and anything to do with Grayson. This guy’s features are so remarkably perfect it’s hard to think he’s more than a sculpture.
His mesmerizing, tanzanite eyes roll at my question, and he shakes his head, stepping over the lifeless man and going behind the nurse. Sitting behind her on his knees, he takes a deep breath and holds it. Closing his eyes and frowning in concentration, he leans his chest into her back. Running his hands down her arms, he starts mimicking her position. Slowly releasing his breath, he leans forward and merges his body into hers.
I blink.
The nurse frowns for a split second, then shakes her head. She looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Make her,” she says simply, going back to work on the man. Thirty chest compressions, two breaths, over and over, she—he—whoever, never stops to check the man’s pulse or breathing, just keeps repeating.
I can’t believe what I’ve just seen. I’m just sitting here with my mouth hanging open. We can do that? I think, flabbergasted. I’m going to need some first-aid classes…
Behind the nurse, lights start to make an appearance over the horizon, and I can hear the ambulance coming in the distance. A few seconds later, the paramedics appear, a duffle bag in each arm as they come up to evaluate the situation.
“There’s a couple over on the median, by the fire. I haven’t assessed their situation or the other two cars. This man has been in full arrest for nine minutes. We need a defibrillator stat,” she yells over her shoulder at the two new arrivals, not stopping CPR and never looking at them.
“Full arrest for nine minutes?” the dark-haired paramedic asks, his partner already sprinting to the couple. He stays but seems to lean toward the two remaining vehicles. “There’s no point,” he says, taking a step away toward the SUV. “Call it.”
“Defib, now,” the nurse roars.
The dark-haired man is shocked for a fraction of a second. After closing his jaw into a hard line, he follows orders, getting out the small machine and two pads with cords. The nurse finally halts CPR to rip open the man’s bloodstained, button-up shirt and moves back.
“Charging,” the paramedic says, kneeling beside the man after hooking up the machine. “Clear,” he calls as he looks over the man’s body to make sure no one is touching him. There’s a small jump of the man’s chest as voltage passes through his heart. The paramedic checks the man’s pulse and then looks back at the nurse in an I-told-you-so manner.
“Again,” she shouts.
The paramedic repeats his actions. Nothing. “He’s gone,” he says.
She gives him a look of total, utter frustration and then pushes the paramedic aside.
“Give up, lady,” he says, still a bit shocked at finding himself on the ground.
She punches some buttons and checks that the pads are stuck on the man’s chest tightly. “Clear!” A larger jolt makes the man jerk up from the pavement. When it’s passed, she places two fingers against his neck again and pauses. Slowly, a s
mirk appears on her face. “I have a pulse.”
In reverse of what I saw only a moment ago, the blond man pulls back from the nurse and is sitting behind her within a few seconds. He pushes up from his knees with just the use of his legs, looks at me, and winks. “Come on, before you go back to your body,” he says, beckoning me back to the median.
My mouth is still hanging open in stunned silence. When I don’t follow, he walks to me and puts a finger under my chin, closing my mouth. The action wakes me from my stupor. Blinking, I take his hand to help me up from the man’s side. He is now receiving oxygen and an IV, and is being monitored by the paramedic. The nurse—the real one—has run off to assist the drivers of the third and fourth vehicles.
I follow him with a deep frown set on my face. “I didn’t know we could do that,” I whisper, finally finding my voice. Although, I have no idea why I’m whispering.
“I’ll teach you. You must learn to listen more carefully to your instincts, Sam.” We finally reach the edge of the concrete, looking back at the various emergency crews now arriving to block off the road and put out the car that’s still burning. “Your uncle isn’t going to show you all the things I can.”
Arching an eyebrow, I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “He can do that, too?”
He laughs. “He wishes.”
So he knows Uncle Carl? I frown again as my irritation bubbles to the surface. “Um, okay,” I say, drawing out both words, “since you’re being so informative and helpful, let’s start with this. Who are you?”
“My name is Cedrick,” he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. Even in the low light of the highway lamps, I can see the definition of every vein running over his forearms, leading up to ridiculously large biceps. He glances at me from the side through a lock of blond hair that has fallen forward and hits the corner of his eye. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s in his mid-to-late twenties.
