Free Desert Crossing by Elise Broach

The police brought our car back around sunset. We were elated to see it, our dusty old sedan. It felt like a reunion. Jamie and Kit opened the windows, apologetic in front of the cops. It still reeked of beer.
    That night, we talked endlessly about the accident, every single detail of it: what we’d been doing in the car right before, what we’d said, what we’d seen. It was like we were trying to make up for the long silence that had settled over us since it happened. Finally, we could replay that scene on the highway—how the rain came, how we felt the bump, how we kept going—because this time we didn’t hit her. This time it wasn’t our fault.
    â€œYou jammed on the brakes, remember?” Kit said.
    â€œNo,” Jamie shook his head, “there wasn’t time. I braked afterwards.”
    â€œYeah, and we skidded,” I reminded them.
    Now Kit thought he remembered a gray streak in front of the car. I wondered if I’d seen it, too.
    Jamie called our mom, and we had to both get on the phone, one on the portable and one in the kitchen, to hear her crying, “Oh, thank God! Oh, Jamie, Lucy, I can’t tell you how worried I was.”
    Then she asked about our dad—she’d called him, was he coming for us?—and at least we could say that he wouldn’t have to now. Not that he wouldn’t come, but that he wouldn’t have to. We’d be driving to Phoenix in a day or so. “But that’s almost halfway through your vacation,” my mom protested.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Jamie told her. “It’ll work out.”
    We called our dad afterward. It was late enough to call him at home, and he picked up on the first ring. As soon as he heard my voice, he said, “Lucy! Why didn’t you leave a number? I’ve been trying the cell all afternoon, but it wouldn’t go through. What the hell’s going on?”
    And I had to explain it again, but it was so much easier now. Plus, I could tell that my dad only cared about the ending, because he kept interrupting with questions like, “So you guys are fine? No damage to the car? When are you going to get here?”
    â€œI think we can leave tomorrow or the next day,” I told him. “The police have to go through the lab report or something.”
    â€œGive me the number for the police station. I want to talk to them directly.”
    So Beth got it for him, and I kept reassuring him, until finally he said, “Well, I hope you can leave tomorrow, because I’ve got meetings all day Wednesday and Thursday, and now the weekend’s shot. Okay, babe, put your brother on.”
    Listening to Jamie’s end of the conversation, I could tell he was getting the predictable lecture, about driving in the rain, or driving too fast, or braking when something came into the road. With my dad, it didn’t matter if it wasn’t your fault. There was always something you could have done differently. Jamie kept saying, “Yeah, Dad. Yeah, I know. I’ll remember.”
    Then Kit finally called his parents. He paced around the living room, his voice too loud, piling on the details. I could feel it happening as he spoke: this terrible thing, the girl dead on the road, was turning into one of his close calls. A near miss, a disaster that wasn’t. He would tell this story as proof of something. But of what? I thought about the girl. Everything had changed for us. Nothing had changed for her.
    â€œSo don’t worry,” Kit was saying. “Everything’s fine now.”
    â€œKit,” I said quietly. “She’s still dead.”
    *   *   *
    That night, I curled up under the blankets and faced the window. It was like looking through the porthole of a spaceship, directly into the universe. I couldn’t sleep. I’d left my door open a crack, hoping one of the dogs would come. But the house was quiet.
    Then I heard something. It