Induction, Chapter one

A semitruck rounds the corner, headlights briefly blinding me. I stare at the white line on the right side of the road, using it as a guide. The monstrous vehicle and its trailer rumble past, shaking the SUV. My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel, my armpits sticky with sweat as I navigate the curves.

I hate driving at night. Especially this stretch of road. The darkness is endless, my headlights unable to penetrate the dense forest of pine and aspen. I have a looming, unsettling feeling that I’ll be swallowed whole, disappearing forever.

With a breath, I release one hand, regrip, and release the other—only to resume a white-knuckle hold when another vehicle approaches. This one is smaller, a sedan. Headlights not as bright. But still.

I hate it.

My regret at volunteering to drive home adds to the already stress-tight muscles in my neck. But I need the nighttime hours of driving to get my license. I only have three out of ten. It would be nice to able to drive myself to work, as opposed to riding my bike. Especially when winter comes. Imagine, riding through sleet in the early morning hours, just to serve people coffee.

Yeah, no thanks. I’ll suffer the anxiety of driving a car at night.

With a glance in my rearview mirror, I’m reminded of the other reason I volunteered to drive home. My dad sits between my twin siblings, Anita and Aaron, nodding off even as he taps at his tablet. The glow illuminates his strands of salt-and- pepper hair. He and my mom helped chaperone over fifty fifth-graders for their summer carnival and assisted with setup and cleanup. They are exhausted after being on their feet for over twenty hours.

My mom’s fallen asleep in the passenger seat next to me, her head resting against the window, her cardigan acting as a pillow. Her light auburn hair is pulled up in a haphazard bun.

Anita is asleep, too, curled up against Dad. Her auburn braids are loose and fuzzy from a busy day of riding each carnival ride twice, if not three times. Aaron peers out the side window, the light drumming of his fingers against the door’s armrest offering a peaceful percussion.

His hair color matches Anita’s, but he convinced Mom and Dad to let him shave it into a mohawk. The twins share Mom’s upturned nose and smattering of freckles. Our older sister Carol, Dad, and I all share the same sloped nose, dark brown hair, and hazel eyes.

I check my speed. Five under the limit.

If Mom was awake, she’d lecture me. “There’s a speed limit for a reason,” she’d say. “It wouldn’t be forty-five if it wasn’t safe to drive that at night.”

And Dad would interject with, “Let her drive at whatever speed is comfortable for her.”

My cell phone dings from the cup holder, signaling a text. A message from my best friend Vic, who is currently in France for some martial arts summer school. When the sun goes down here, it rises over there. He’s either getting up to go on an early morning run, or he already went for one. Probably the latter. Boy puts early birds to shame.

He likes to send me pictures of animals he sees on his runs. So far, he’s seen deer and racoons, and a farmer with his cows. Lately though, he’s been obsessed with some girl. The love of his life, he says.

I resist the temptation to take a peek at what news he’s sent me and adjust the air vent for the AC, silently praising myself for relaxing a little. Even with the sun down, the temperature is still a disgusting ninety degrees Fahrenheit. July evenings in Colorado at their finest.

With my newfound confidence, and no other passing vehicles with blinding lights, I take a second to adjust the radio volume. The regular music isn’t playing, as the DJ talks about a teenage girl from the area who’s been missing for twelve hours.

I frown, biting my lip, eyes scanning the road and forest ahead, my mind already going to the worst place, wondering what happened to the missing girl.

Aaron gasps. “Whoa, do you see that?”

No sooner do I glance out the side window than something large leaps from the side of the road, right into the path of the SUV. My eyes shoot to the road, gaze locking on the reflective yellow eyes of a mountain lion—a mountain lion the size of a grizzly bear.

I slam the brakes, tires squealing. The bumper clips the beast, jolting the vehicle. Then we’re spinning. A scream tears from my throat. Glass shatters. A force punches at my face and chest, slamming my body hard against the seat. My vision blurs red. A horn blares, piercing the ringing in my ears. Sharp lights clutter my fuzzy vision. I catch sight of a chrome grille.

Smash!

Pain shoots through my spine and my head, throbbing in my nose. I’m weightless, flying through the air. For a second, I think I’m dead.

The vehicle hits the ground, slamming hard against the earth, jarring my bones. I black out and come to several times. Each moment is like an eternity and a single second. Soft sobbing lulls me from darkness. I’m not sure if it’s my own or from my family. Maybe both. Movement hurts. As if every muscle is being pinned down with sharp implements. The worst is the hot, stabbing pinch in my left shoulder.

Too scared to move, I try to focus on staying conscious. Each time my eyes open, vision unfocused and swimming, I attempt to talk. Ask if anyone is hurt. But I can’t. My mouth refuses to move. It just hangs open and aches with a deep throb along my left jawline.

Something warm and wet runs down my face. I tell myself the liquid is just tears, not anything else. My head rubs against the roof when I try to turn my head to check on my family.

How many times did the vehicle roll? I only remember hitting the ground once. The memory twists my stomach in knots. Bile burns in my chest, threatening to erupt up my throat.

Stop thinking about it! I need to focus on checking on my family, figure out how to get out of this crushed vehicle.

I force my eyes open and somehow manage to keep them open. The left headlight is broken and dim, but the right one pierces through dark, illuminating a massive animal form as it rises to its feet. I don’t dare blink. I don’t dare breathe.

The enormous beast has the round head and short muzzle of a mountain lion. A long, sleek predatory body with muscles boasting of insane strength under tan, matted fur. It turns its head, glowing eyes unfocused as they skip over me. Dark blood oozes from its nose. Jaw hanging open, it huffs, showcasing rows of sharp glistening teeth.

Its unsteady gaze finds me, and I freeze. A moment, a second, a lifetime passes. Its muscles bunch, shifting its weight. Is it going to attack? My heart hits hard. Once. Twice. Then the beast turns and limps away from the vehicle, quickly consumed by the dark of the forest.

The vacating beast is the last thing I remember when I wake up the next morning in the hospital with my dislocated jaw, three fractured ribs, fractured humerus bone, and concussion. I don’t remember the couple who called 911 and stayed with us until the EMTs arrived. I don’t remember being moved from the smashed SUV to the ambulance, or the ride to the hospital, or surgery, where they set my bones and relocated my jaw.

And I definitely do not remember them pronouncing Aaron dead on the scene.