What happens next is a blur in my memory. I see only snapshots—of
the sky flipping absurdly, of fists coming at me, of a strange, savage
look in the eyes of a man I don’t recognize. I see my hands grasping the
wheel, and I feel strong arms wrenching my legs. Something shifts in
my ankle, a crack or a pop. I lose my grip. I’m pulled from the car.
I feel icy pavement on my back; pebbles are grinding into my skin.
My jeans have slid down past my hips. I’d felt them peeling off me,
inch by inch, as Shawn yanked my legs. My shirt has risen up and I
look at myself, at my body spread flat on the asphalt, at my bra and
faded underwear. I want to cover myself but Shawn has pinned my
hands above my head. I lie still, feeling the cold seep into me. I hear
my voice begging him to let me go, but I don’t sound like myself. I’m
listening to the sobs of another girl.
I am dragged upward and set on my feet. I claw at my clothing. Then
I’m doubled over and my wrist is being folded back, bending, bent as
far as it will go and bending still. My nose is near the pavement when
the bone begins to bow. I try to regain my balance, to use the strength
in my legs to push back, but when my ankle takes weight, it buckles. I
scream. Heads turn in our direction. People crane to see what the
commotion is. Immediately I begin to laugh—a wild, hysterical cackle
that despite all my efforts still sounds a little like a scream.
“You’re going in,” Shawn says, and I feel the bone in my wrist crack.
I go with him into the bright lights. I laugh as we pass through aisle
after aisle, gathering the things he wants to buy. I laugh at every word
he says, trying to convince anyone who might have been in the parking
lot that it was all a joke. I’m walking on a sprained ankle, but the pain
barely registers.
We do not see Charles.
The drive back to the site is silent. It’s only five miles but it feels like
fifty. We arrive and I limp toward the shop. Dad and Richard are
inside. I’d been limping before because of my toe, so my new hobble
isn’t so noticeable. Still, Richard takes one look at my face, streaked
with grease and tears, and knows something is wrong; Dad sees
nothing.
I pick up my screw gun and drive screws with my left hand, but the
pressure is uneven, and with my weight gathered on one foot, my
balance is poor. The screws bounce off the painted tin, leaving long,