Free Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan by Seanan McGuire

dead.
    The men who raced against Tommy have realized that something is very
wrong; that this isn't the sort of accident someone laughs at and walks away
from. Their cars have stopped, and the men are getting out, looking back toward
where Tommy's car lies shattered on the road. None of them are moving to help
him--to help us, since every one of them thinks I'm his townie girlfriend, the
one he's doing this stupid, suicidal thing for. They just let me run, my throat
raw with screaming, tears running down my cheeks as I reach for another soul I
failed to save.
    They were going too fast and the road seemed smooth, but there are cracks
in the cleanest pavement, slick spots, potholes, rocks. I may never know which
one hit the wheels of the car ahead of Tommy, and it doesn't really matter; he
spun out, adjusted, caught himself and drove on. In the process, he clipped
Tommy, and something about that collision was enough--just enough--to send the
smaller, lighter Toyota into a spin it never pulled out of. Tommy's car rolled
three times before it stopped, twisted metal and smoking engine, a broken body
on the road.
    She's already gone when I get there. All that's left is cooling death,
and a young man cut almost in half by his own steering column. There's blood
everywhere. I don't let that stop me. If there's one thing I've learned since
the night I died, it's that blood washes off, but no one--no one--deserves to
die alone.
    "Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me?" I beat my fists against the glass of the
passenger window, trying to catch his attention. I could take off the coat,
slide through this door like it was smoke, but then I'd be on the ghostroads
again, and I wouldn't be able to hold his hand until the dying finished. He's a
fool, yes, and he still deserves to have someone holding his hand while the
lights go out. "Tommy!"
    Three of the racers come running up, big men, muscling their way past me
to wrench the door open. Then they stop, hands dangling uselessly, as they try
to figure out what else they can do for him. Maybe someone's called an
ambulance, and maybe nobody will; this sort of race is illegal, after all, and
they have to be measuring their own lives yet to come against the death of one
boy barely out of his teens and too stupid to know when to find another way.
They can't take him out of the car, that much is clear; the way it's wrapped
around him is like a lover's embrace, and there's no way of breaking it without
breaking him even further.
    If Tommy can't come to us, I'll go to him. It's the only thing left that
I can do. I squeeze my way between the racers (and if any of them notice the
sudden give to my flesh, the way I seem to be losing substance by the second,
they don't say anything; the ones who'd notice are the ones who know the
twilight well enough to know me) and kneel next to the driver's-side door,
gravel biting into my knees. My hands are blood even before I realize that his
blood is on the seat, and it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, blood can't hurt
me.
    "Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me?" My fingers almost pass through his cheek
the first time I reach out to him. I pull back, concentrate, and try again. This
time I can feel my fingers graze his skin, and I don't know if that's because
I'm closer to living, or because he's closer to dead. "Come on, Tommy, stay with
me. Open your eyes, and stay with me."
    It's too late now. It's all over except for the dying. But I'm still
here, and he's still here, and as long as that's the case, I'm going to be here
for him. I owe him that much. I owe all of them that much.
    Tommy swallows with obvious difficulty, and opens his eyes. They aren't
quite focusing anymore. He won't really see the other racers, or the road, or
the blood that's dripping over everything, like the red flag signaling that it's
time to leave the finish line. But he'll still see me. We're in the same place
right now, he and I. "R-Rose?"
    "I'm here. I'm