Then—metal, then sound. A bike clipped the curb; a shout. The driver of the other car hadn’t seen the crossing. I still remember the smell—hot oil and wet cotton. I remember Eli’s voice like a cracked record, calling my name the way you call a dog when it has run too far. There’s blood that is not cinematic, just red and practical, a smear across the dashboard. We don’t run; running would make us characters in a story we can’t control.