Free From What I Remember by Stacy Kramer

maneuver us into the corner. She doesn’t seem so tough anymore as she peers up at me. We crouch behind a huge pile of speakers as the truck picks up speed.

think I might throw up. I’ve been through some pretty bad stuff: Jake’s seizures, getting mugged at knifepoint on Crosby Street, and Nana’s heart attack. But now that all seems minor league in comparison. I’m pretty sure we’re both going to die. It’s weird what comes to mind when you think your life is about to end. I’m wondering who will be at the memorial. Definitely Will. But anyone else from school? I kind of doubt it. Will would call it an “intimate” affair. The perils of dying young when you’re not super popular. I’m sure Max’s funeral will be standing room only. I force myself to try to think positive. I am not going to die.
    Everything will be all right despite the absurdly ridiculous odds against that possibility. People say positive thinking can save your life. I doubt it will help, but I might as well give it a try. I attempt to focus on the fact that, best-case scenario, I’ll have some good material for my next screenplay. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take hold. And I’m back to freaking out.
    It’s dark in the truck, with only a few slashes of light piercing through the seams of the back doors. A huge television looms over us, dangerously close. If the truck swerves or stops suddenly, we could be crushed to death, which might be preferable to being beaten to a pulp.
    I am so stupid. And reckless. And selfish. What about graduation? NYU? Jake? Mom? My life is just beginning. It’s not supposed to be ending. How could I have just climbed into this truck? Max was right. It was a bad plan. A terrible, awful, horrible, idiotic plan that I didn’t think through. As usual. I have my computer, but I’m about to lose my life. What on earth is wrong with me?
    Max is sitting next to me, his arms wrapped around his knees. As I look at him not looking at me, I feel even worse. Nausea and tears well up inside me. I feel like I might burst open—raw, ugly emotion splattering all over the truck. We are so screwed, and it’s all my fault.
    I’d never write a lame scene like the one I’ve managed to find myself in. I sure as hell wouldn’t have let my protagonist jump into the bad guys’ truck without a plan. At the very least, I would have made sure my hero had a gun or a knife hidden in her boot. The only thing I’ve got is my computer. And it isn’t even turned on. I suck as a real-life action hero.
    I’m feeling more and more despondent. I try to play things out in my head, to ferret out a good ending, but it’s just not happening. Even if we can somehow escape, that would probably involve jumping out of a moving truck onto a road with high-speed traffic bearing down on us. If we survive that—and that’s a big if—we’d most likely be in San Ysidro, a border town filled with drug runners, where massacres are a daily occurrence. And that’s the happy ending.
    As for the bad scenarios, take your pick. We’re discovered by the bad guys, dragged to a deserted location, shot, knifed, or strangled, and then left for dead. I’m overcome with images of Max and me riddled with bullets, lying in a ditch. I’m trembling. I can’t get the gruesome picture out of my mind. I shake my head to stop myself from spiraling into the abyss. So much for the power of positive thinking.
    I glance over at Max, looking for some kind of solace. But he seems even more terrified than me. It’s disconcerting. Panic doesn’t suit him.
    “What are we going to do?” I whisper.
    Max doesn’t respond. He continues staring straight ahead. It’s wigging me out. I wish he would just scream at me. Or punch me. Something. Anything. I need him to be present. He’s all I’ve got. I am about to say something else to Max when he shoves his hand over my mouth. His palm is sweaty from nerves.
    He holds up his iPhone and taps into it. My phone vibrates. I pull