Far From You

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It doesn’t start here.

You’d think it would: two terrified girls in the middle of nowhere, cowering together, eyes bulging at the gun in his hand.

But it doesn’t start here.

It starts the first time I almost die.

The first time, I’m fourteen and Trev’s driving us home from swim practice. Mina has the windows rolled down, her hands dancing to the music, rings glinting in the late afternoon sunlight as we speed past barbed wire fences and scrabbly ranches, the mountains stretching out behind them. We sing along to the radio in the backseat, and Trev laughs at my off-key voice.

It happens fast: the screech of metal on metal, glass everywhere. I’m not wearing my seat belt, and I pitch forward as Mina’s scream drowns out the music.

Then everything’s black.

The second time, I’m seventeen and annoyed with Mina. We’re already late, and now she’s turning off the highway, onto Burnt Oak Road.

“Just one little detour. It’ll be quick, I promise.”

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