My eyes are closed.

                I wait―for a crash, for death, for the introduction of the truck through the windshield of the Porsche I never should have gotten into. 

                I can smell it: hot, burning rubber and gasoline.

                Goodbye, Cassie. One last prayer for my little sister. I'm so sorry I left you with Mom. 

                But after one second, two―the sound of the squealing tires is gone. I can hear the sound of my heavy breathing as the ringing fades.

                And when I open my eyes, I see the truck burning.

                "You swerved," I say, still in shock. "You . . . steered us out of the way."

                 Veah is looking at the sand in front of us, caked on the windshield. Her eyes are fixed on the truck. Watching it as it burns.

                  "Your reflexes," I say, thinking out loud. "That's not possible."

                   How can her reflexes be so sharp? How can her instinct be so honed? 

                   The fire from the truck morphs into something bigger, and I see a silhouette in the passenger seat.

                    My hand shakes as I try to unbuckle my seatbelt. I tug on the handcuff that connects us, urging her to move. To look.

                    "Veah," I whisper. "The truck driver―we have to help him."

                    Wordless, she shakes her head.

                    The truck explodes.

                    Fury and flame and debris rise up into the air―too far away to hurt us,  but too close to be safe. Sparks swirl through the air, and through the shattered windows, I smell it: heat and sea salt.

                    "We have to―we have to do something," I say, fumbling for the car door. "Oh, my God, we can't just―"

                     Veah steps on the gas pedal. The car lurches through the sand, and I am thrown back against the leather seat again. I wince, and the feeling of stickiness―warm blood―pricks at me. A head injury. Shit. 

                     "Um," I say. Hysteria creeps up into my voice. "We can't just leave―"

                      Without looking at me, she accelerates. The car begins to speed along the ribbon of grey road, faster and faster beneath the stormy sky.

                      I am in a car with a stranger.

                      I am in a car with a beautiful stranger.

                      I am in a car with a crazy, beautiful stranger. 

                      And we are hurtling towards our deaths. Is it a crime to leave the scene of a car accident? Probably. Definitely. Will I get arrested? Should I call the police? 

                      Yes, Kaya, you should call the police. 

                      With one hand, I fumble in my pocket for my phone. The screen is cracked. My eyes flicker towards Veah, who stares determinedly at the road ahead. 

                      Trembling, I dial 9-1-1.

                       At the sound of the ring, Veah's storm-gray eyes slide towards me. To the phone in my hand. To the number on the screen.

                       Even though she is driving with one hand, she reaches across the steering wheel to pluck the phone out of my hand.

                       And throw it out of the window.

                       "Hey!" I protest. "You can't―"

                       "Your address," she says. "What is it?"

                        I hesitate. She has to be insane―but where will she take me if I don't tell her? At least, if we're at home, then we're on familiar grounds. And since Lindsay isn't home, I won't be putting anyone in danger.

                         Anyone but myself, that is.

                         "64 Reynolds Alley," I supply, and we hit 110 kilometers an hour.

                         All I can do is clutch my seatbelt and hold on.

                         Despite the fear that courses through me, the adrenaline is like a shot to my system. I feel alive with strumming veins and crackling blood. I feel every twitch and tensing of my muscles; I see the road that looms ahead and the sky that roils overhead.

                          I feel alive. As though, everything before this moment, I wasn't. 

                          Maybe it's not eloquent, or poetic, or graceful. But by God, it's glorious.

                          As soon as I unlock the door to mine and Lindsay's house, Veah begins to search through the cabinets, opening them up and scattering things until she finds it―a butcher's knife.

                          "I don't think is a such a good idea," I say, trying to curl my hand away from her.

                          "Please," she says urgently. "You have to trust me. You can't be stuck to me."

                          Is she worried about the police? Does she think she'll get in trouble for the accident?

                          My stomach churns at the thought of the explosion. Murder. 

                          I hold out my hand. "Do it."

                          But the moment she slices at the chain, I realize it won't work. Whatever iron it is―it's too strong. 

                           The blood drains from Veah's face.

                           "Kaya," she whispers. "I'm so sorry."

                           For letting the truck driver blow up? For going too fast? 

                           I don't have time to ask, because in the next moment, gunshots are raining through the window. Bullets splatter against the kitchen counter, spraying against the marble tile.

                           My mouth opens. One second. Two―

                           Veah is instantly in front of me. Facing the windows. Covering me.

                           More bullets rip through the glass, and her arms are over mine as she slams me to the ground. On top of me, her eyes meet mine. Swirling storms.

                            Her mouth, just inches from mine, parts.

                             I shouldn't be thinking of kissing her. I shouldn't be thinking of―

                             "Follow my lead," she says, and she jumps to her feet, pulling me up and rolling towards the back of the counter. At her waist, she assembles her gun.

                              "You can't scare them with a toy." But even as I say it, I know it's not a toy. She shoves a case of bullets into it, cocking it, and then she peers around the corner. Firing two shots.

                             I hear roars from outside. Men―the sound of men.

                             They're speaking in a different language. Japanese.

                             "Do you have a car?" she asks me.

                              "Yeah―but it's at the party we just left." 

                              "Shit," she mutters. "Shit. Shit, shit."

                              "Is there something wrong?" I ask. "Besides the men shooting up my living room?"

                             I can't help thinking of the moment when she dove in front of me, covering my body with hers. When she pushed me to the ground before diving down herself. She protected me―why?

                             This is when I pay attention. Her back pressed against the white cabinets, I don't see it until she ducks back to the side, firing two rapid shots outside.

                            I see the smear of blood. The leather jacket is wet, glistening with fresh dampness. 

                            She was shot. She took a bullet for me.

                            Talk about a first date. But . . . the way she moves now, the predatory, fluid grace to her movements . . . it doesn't seem like she's hurt. Like she even feels it.

                            She should be in shock. She should be hyperventilating, and shaking, and pale. So why is she still aiming outside with vicious accuracy, thinking fast with those cloud-gray eyes? How is this possible? 

                            I may only be a computer engineer―a hacker, really―but I know something isn't right about this.

                             And I know I'm right, as she turns to me and says, "We have to go. Now."

                            "Well, no shit, Sherlock."

                            "On the count of three."

                             "No, wait just one fucking moment, we're not going to go out there towards the maniacs with the guns, who are shooting up my living room―"

                              She counts to three.

>>>

Mixed feelings, huh?

From the moon and back,
Sarai