Everything was black.

I was holding my breath, but I couldn't remember why. I could feel my hands scrambling — reaching, gripping fabric ... then the fabric was pressed to my face and I took in short, fast breaths.

It only just then occurred to me that smoke was thick in the air, and then panic struck and I could feel my heart accelerate.

I couldn't see anything.

I couldn't— I couldn't—

A shout rang out in the space, and suddenly I was moving, ignoring the consuming panic in my mind.

Suddenly I was no longer surrounded by smoke nor darkness. No, now I could see the red hot fire, and just beyond it a silhouette . . . Fear consumed me, seizing my chest and stomach in a vice-like grip. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move—

I bolted upright in my bed, gasping for air, eyes wide as I tried to reorient myself. Once my heart had slowed down some, I reached around and grabbed my phone off the nightstand. 2:03 shone up at me, and I scrubbed a hand over my face as I realized how early in the morning it was.

I hadn't had nightmares in ... well, a really long time. And my first instinct was to text Mickey, until I remembered she didn't even know who she was right now. But the idea remained, and my fingers hovered over her name in my messages app. After all, I tried to reason with myself, dissociative amnesia or not, she would still have her night owl habits, right?

That was when something else occurred to me. If she was awake and active, she'd have her light on in her room.

Still clutching my phone, I got to my feet and headed to my window. The moment I looked out, though, I could feel my heart beginning to race all over again. Not because the light was or wasn't on in Mickey's room, or anything stupid like that — but because she was climbing out of her window.

I would've shouted at her had I not remembered it was two in the morning. As it was I made a loud, strangled sound that resembled her name, right before she dropped.

I watched as she rolled into her landing, barely risking a glance up at where I stood, before she came to a complete pause. We both stared at each other, and despite the situation, her features still remained fierce and unashamed.

"Mickey!" I hissed as loud as I dared, watching as she straightened, her hands sliding into her jacket pockets. "What— what are you doing?"

Even in the moonlight, her eye roll was obvious. "Going out, obviously," she whispered, giving me an unimpressed look. "Don't follow me."

That was all she said before she began walking, and it took me a fraction of a second to decide to ignore what she said and follow her. I ran out of my room, clutching onto my phone as I jogged down the stairs. I did my best to stay quiet so I wouldn't wake Mom or the boys, but I felt I like couldn't move fast enough. Somehow, I knew her calm exterior was a façade. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that she'd disappeared the moment I'd lost sight of her, be it by running off, or some other impossible means.

Only Mickey, I thought, would dream up a character like this, and believe it to be herself.

The moment I burst through the swinging back door, I broke into a legitimate run. I sprinted around to the front of the house, slowing as I reached the front yard. I saw a silhouette in the distance, moving with surprising stealth in the shadows, and I forced myself to run faster.

I ran, not caring that I had forgotten shoes, not caring that I was in sweats with only my cellphone — not caring about anything except the fact that my best friend was sneaking out in the middle of the night. I made it two blocks before I lost sight of her completely, and only then did I slow groaning aloud and mentally kicking myself. Though I knew, realistically, there wasn't anything else I could've done ... jumped out the window? Yeah, right. It was a miracle she hadn't broken anything. Taken off after her in the car? If I had tried I wouldn't even have known which direction she went.

I sat down in the nearest front yard, arms resting on my knees as I looked out at the neighborhood in the crisp night air. My mind scrabbled for where she could've been going. The direction she had headed could've taken her anywhere from school to down town.

I sighed heavily, looking down at my phone in my hand, and slowly got to my feet. Standing there, in the middle of the neighborhood at two in the freaking morning, I sent out one text, then trudged home.

Though I shouldn't have been surprised, I was still disappointed when I didn't receive an answer.

—

TEXT TO MICK: Can we just talk, please? I'm worried about you

—

That night, I only made it to the couch. I was too exhausted to go further — both in the emotional and physical sense. When I woke up, the house was silent, and sunlight was leaking in through the front windows.

And a piece of paper was taped to the front of my t-shirt.

J,

I took the boys to school. I'll be picking them up as well. Already called your school. Just go ahead and take a day off, hon, goodness knows you need it. Maybe catch up on sleep?

Oh, and by the way, the police station called. They have information on the crash. They said to ask for Caleb Blake when you call.

Love you, Mom

I reread the note at least three times before all of the information actually made sense to me. I was still bleary from the lack of sleep I'd gotten last night — something that was happening more often since the crash — and I knew I should follow Mom's advice and rest.

But I also knew that before I could even think of resting, I was going to call the police station and find out who had caused the car crash that had ultimately wrecked havoc on my life. It wasn't a choice I needed to think about; I dropped the note onto the coffee table, picked up my cellphone, and punched in the number my mom had left scribbled on the paper.

"Kingston Police Office, how may I direct your call?"

"Hi," I said quietly, clearing my throat before I continued. "I'm Jason Thomas, and I was told to ask for Officer Caleb Blake when I called?"

The operator was silent for a moment. "One moment while I redirect you."

"Thank you," was all I managed to get out before the line went quiet.

It only took a few seconds for the familiar voice of the police officer to answer me, "This is Officer Blake."

"Hi," I repeated, "this is Jason Thomas."

"Ah, yes," Blake said in recognition. "I called your mother earlier. She insisted I speak to you personally about what we discovered."

I bit my tongue to keep from demanding "Then tell me!" and instead I remained silent until he continued.

"We found the truck a mile away from where the crash occurred," he explained. "It was smashed in at the front, and some of the paint off your friend's car has scraped off in the crash. However, when we looked into the owners of the vehicle, we found out that it had been called in as stolen, only a few minutes before the crash took place."

I could feel my throat closing up. "Stolen?" I repeated.

"I'm afraid so."

"But there were finger prints, right? In the truck?"

"Actually," there was an uncomfortable pause on Blake's end, "that's the ... odd thing. The truck was wiped down. There were no finger prints, no DNA. The theory is that the thief realized what he had done, and covered his tracks best as he could. Where the truck was stolen from, there were no security cameras ..."

My frustration was building.

"But we're going through street cameras today to see if we can pick up anything. I'm afraid that's all we know right now." When he paused, and I didn't answer, he hesitantly asked, "Jason?"

"Yeah, I'm still here," I said in a flat voice. "I ..." I took in a deep breath. "Thanks for letting me know."

"Of course," Blake said. "I'll be in contact when we find out anything more."

"Thank you," I said curtly. Then I hung up. As I sat on the couch, and stared at my cellphone, I wondered if all of this really was just an accident. The more I learned, the less anything made sense ...

As I stood, I made my decision. It was time for me to see if Mickey was at home.