But she was still holding on.
The seventh punch, the eighth punch...
She was truly out of strength.
Her body began to go limp, her consciousness fading. Her mouth fell open involuntarily, and another large gulp of seawater flooded in.
This time, she couldn't hold it in and coughed. Bubbles surged from her mouth, floating up—BLUB, BLUB, BLUB—toward that tiny point of light.
'So bright,' she thought fuzzily, watching the bubbles.
'So beautiful.' Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier.
In her hazy consciousness, she saw a figure swimming toward her.
Through the murky seawater, through her fading awareness, she couldn't make out the face, but she recognized the silhouette.
Jett Westgate.
He swam to the car window, raised his fist, and began to slam it, punch after punch, against the glass she had failed to break.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Each blow felt like it was landing on her heart.
