It was cold. Cold in a way that stole the breath from her lungs and made her forget what breathing ever felt like. Cold that bit through fabric and skin and bone. There was no road anymore. No sky. Only water pressing in on every side and voices yelling, all of it distant, like they were echoing off the inside of a dream she couldn't wake from.
There was screaming. But it wasn't hers. Just the sounds of people outside the car, voices distorted. It was too loud and too far away at the same time. Her chest hurt, like someone heavy was sitting on it, and underneath that weight was a sharp, cracking ache that kept getting worse.
Then she hears a cracked, almost pained voice.
"You have to get out. Your mother and I…" The voice breaks, cracks, like tears are about to escape.
She remembers: they were driving from her piano competition. Her mother had wanted to stop for ice cream, she remembered that now. She had said no, that she had to check in her college essay. The truck hit from behind before anyone could scream. They were airborne before she realized they had left the road.
Then came the cold. She remembered that most. The cold, and how much she hated it.
"Mom," she said groggily.
"She's okay. Just unconscious, that's all." His voice shook. He didn't meet her eyes through the cracked rearview mirror. "The water's coming in through the floor. You need to unbuckle. You need to move."
"No."
She said it before she could stop herself. Tears were already sliding down her face. "Not. I'm not leaving you."
Her fingers yanked at the belt again. It finally gave way with a click that echoed in her ears like a gunshot. She pushed forward, crawling between the seats. Hands reaching out to his buckle.
Grabbing her wrist tightly, he begged. "Listen to me. Everything you need is in the safe behind the painting in the hallway. You know the one. The code is our birthdays, divided by yours. You remember that. Right?"
She stared at him.
"You need to get out of this car."
"If I open the door, the water will come in. It'll drown you."
He didn't answer for a second. His face was pale, wet, and blood trickling from somewhere near his shoulder.
"I know," he said softly. "But I need you to live, baby. That's what your mother and I want. You need to live."
She couldn't say anything. She just started begging. "Please don't make me. Please. I don't know how to…. I can't do this alone."
Then a noise snapped her attention to the window. A hand. Gloved. Tapping against the glass. She turned and saw the face behind it, mask in place, body half-submerged. The diver looked down for a second, then gave a thumbs-up.
There was a crack.
Then another.
The window gave out in a single violent burst, and the lake flooded the car in seconds. She screamed, instinct taking over, arms flailing.
"Listen to me," her father shouted through the rush of water. "They're going to help us out. But you have to go first. You have to be safe."
She was crying too hard to speak, but she nodded. Just once.
The diver reached in. Hands on her shoulders, guiding her. She let go. Let the water carry her. Let them pull her toward the dark surface above.
She thought they were behind her. She thought they would follow.
But the diver who pulled her out would later tell the others that the woman's chest had already stopped rising and falling.
And the man—her father—had bled out before they could even reach him.
They would not come home. And she would.
Alone.