Lights are blinding and my chest burns as I breathe. I can practically hear it, I think, even though the sound is coming from me. I am gasping, but something is so painful about breathing that the sound hardly can float away for anyone to hear it. From where I am, thrown from the car, I can see Jaymi's face, pale, her mouth open, and her curling black hair falling to the soft grass the car rests upside down on. I try to yell her name. I want to say something, tell her I love her, ask her if she's okay, but I feel it ripping at my aching chest. The noises I'm making sound so horrible and gentle that I imagine that this is what it sounds like when the soul is ripped from the body and floats away to where we go when we die.

Past Jaymi is Trent, whose arms are resting on the ceiling of the upturned car, something dripping down his face as the sun finally sets. I swear for a moment that he's smiling.

I begin to sob, nearly unable to breathe. I look to the front seat where I was just sitting and my mother is halfway out the windshield, arms splayed above her onto the grass, her red hair covering half of her face which is looking directly at me, eyes half open. Tears sting the cuts and scratches on my face. I want to scream, but only choked noises escape and I cough up blood. Please, god, let me drown in my own blood. I can't.

I look, as if in slow motion, to the third row of the minivan, and see Molly laying on the ceiling, her seatbelt caught around her waist loosely, holding her hips against the seat above her. I am close enough that I can find it in me to pull myself to her, spitting blood out the whole way, rasping, trying to say her name. I cannot see her face past the curtain of red hair. I need to see her face.

Her fingers move, or maybe it's a trick of the headlights still rushing past us. I hear someone yelling that someone's alive. I don't look for them. My eyes are locked on my little sister laying amongst the broken glass.

"Molly!" I grab at her jacket, begging, please, not her too. She is limp in my grasp and I clumsily pull her from the seatbelt and wreckage and hold her to my chest, warm and still. I cry so hard that I can swear that she's breathing with me. I look into the drizzling rain above me as the flashing colored lights slow on the side of the highway.

I look up at the man that reaches me first and his eyes remain open while closing and I want to beg him to do something. Before I can ask though, he pulls my sister from my arms and lays her on the ground, touching her neck, her wrists. A set of hands grab at me and ask me where it hurts.

I cannot say anything, spitting blood from my mouth, pushing the hands away.

"Leave me—", I say, looking at my friends, at my mother, as they're pulled from the car by people all yelling things. My best friends. My family. I shove at the hands trying the put a brace around my neck. More hands join in and I feel myself being strapped to a stretcher.

My voice rushes back as they carry me to an ambulance. I scream and scream, flecks of blood flying from my mouth.

I watch as Jaymi is laid on the ground, her hair splayed like a dark halo around her head, her face still. Her body is picked up by two men and laid on a board before the straps are done loosely around her. The doors of the ambulance shut.

I cannot answer their questions. All I can do is cry so violently that I begin to cough up more blood.

The paramedic cuts my shirt open and his cold hands touch my bruising chest firmly.

"At least two broken," he says to the other man who looks over.

"Deep breath, son," the second says to me and I try to pull air into my lungs. "Flail chest."

"Anything else that hurts?"

"Can't feel my legs." I cough, looking up to the ceiling. They fuss over me for some time yet until we come to a stop and the men jump up, throwing open the back doors and pulling the stretcher from inside.

Two women meet them at the doors and then everyone is yelling things.

"Honey, what's your name?" I look up at the asian woman in a doctor's uniform.

"Foster Welsh."

"Who else was in the car?" she asks.

"My mom, Tammi, my sister, Molly and Jaymi Dupree and Trent Duke." I say, looking at her to see her response.

"Who can we call for you, honey?" she asks me.

"My dad, Nickolas Welsh. He lives in California."

She nods.

"We're going to put you under, Foster. We're going to have to operate on you."

I nod and feel myself tearing up again.

"Are they okay?" I ask her. Something in her face changes, and I can feel the lie settle on my skin when she says she doesn't know.