You feel wonderful. A little drowsy, really, but in a happy way. Your arm drapes across your friend’s shoulder; the pair of you sauntering toward the humid street. You look at the seashell pink rimming her eyes, the flecks of makeup dripping from the lashes, and, thinking about how mascara wands are sort of hairy themselves, succumb to a wave of hilarity. “An eyelash sandwich,” you tell her. At her bewilderment, a cackle rises from your belly, escapes in full bursts from your mouth.

Barely listening, she gripes. “Do you really have to go now?” You nod absentmindedly, disengage from her to walk to the car. You forget why you wanted to get home so badly in the first place—your parents are probably just watching bad Christmas movies—but you think a drive would be nice right now. A gaze around at the streetlights, bright like flowers, saturated red apples. You’d like an apple pie. You can’t remember ever feeling so hungry.

As you numbly finger the car keys, no thread of conscience, not one of your random, smoke-ring thoughts, bothers to ask whether or not you should be driving high.

The car rumbles ignorantly on. The steering wheel slides obediently under your hand. Such an intricate, leathery texture. A shaved mountain goat. Your foot presses the pedal to the floor in relaxed silence.

By your thigh, a notification hovers in the darkness: Kat. A kitty emoji accessorizes the contact name. Where r you? Right! Kate asked you to pick her up after dinner with Jackson, a friend from tennis. Following a quick U-turn, your new route swings you through side streets, rocks you like a baby. Within five minutes, Kat is flopping, a deflated mattress, into the passenger seat. Her slouch professes exhaustion, but you can see the secret electricity in her closing blue eyes, the way her mouth’s elastic corners won’t stop trying to pull a smile across her tired cheeks.

“Looks like someone had a good night,” you prod. She’s been spending lots of time with Jackson, says he’s “easy to talk to” about nerve-racking recruitment scholarships. You imagine he’s easy to talk to about lots of other things as well.

Kat looks up at your sluggish chuckle. “Looks like you had a good night too.” At your lack of response, she sighs: “Should you be driving like this?”

You point an enlightened finger to the sky; it wavers. “I think it actually makes me better at driving, not worse,” you explain.

Traces of her uncomfortable comment linger, dustlike, in the air. Music, music, that’s what you need. Especially entering the highway. Toggling the switch with an impatient fumble, you land on Classical FM.

If Beethoven was deaf, you wonder, how did he read all that sheet music? You frown, stumped.

Then, a violin pierces the stuffy air, falling embers tingling down your neck. As the piece unfolds, you feel the stream of overlaid voices wash the inside of your skull. To your right, Kat’s face softens, gentle in sleep. You feel her baby hands pulling on your arm for Werther’s caramels so many years ago. You think about the day she was born, her face a wrinkled candy wrapper: jellybean nose. You float in the music, drifting from one nostalgic note to another, savouring each in your forehead, your chest. The way it slows down before the climax, the orchestra building, building….

Bayview. Your exit. It’s late to turn, but only a little; you’ll be fine. Weed sharpens the senses, after all. Your right hand pulls the wheel down—a crashing cymbal sounds. Next to you, the airbag flexes, a white tennis skirt. Your head is thrown forward, bounces lazily to a stop against the glass.

***

In the dim hospital room, your sister vomits into a kidney basin. Tears sit in the corners of her eyes. She was asleep for seven hours and a half; you were counting.

When she looks up at you, dull blue eyes unfocused, your heart shakes. Layered bandages wrap her nose in a lumpy croissant, her neck a cocoon. When she speaks your name, the nasal sound hangs in the air between you like a question mark.

“Kat! You’re awake.”

Kate’s eyebrows tilt in response: Thanks, Captain Obvious.

You say: “You’re in the hospital. We got in an accident. Mom and Dad are here, but they’re getting lunch.” You don’t say: I hate to see you so helpless. None of this should be happening. The police suspended my license for two months, but I deserve so much worse.

You stare, accusing, down at your unblemished hands. You feel like tearing them apart, digging your nails underneath the skin until they scrape white knuckle. Instead, you clasp them, look up. You ask, “How do you feel?”

Kate’s eyes squeeze closed, in sync with the clock’s ticking. “Everything hurts.”

The doctor’s words turn over in your mind: severe spinal damage, mild concussion, partial paralysis—barely distinguishable under the unstopping litany beating stronger and louder against your ribs: All my fault. All my fault. All my fault.

***

You pretend to read on Kat’s sofa. A Santa pillow smiles next to you—only Kate could have the kindness to rescue such an ugly thing off a store shelf, fluff it up with pride every year under the stockings. With the dry pages forming a cave around your phone, you enter the last few digits of your payment information. THANK YOU FOR YOUR $100 CONTRIBUTION TO MADD. TOGETHER WE ARE SAVING LIVES!

            You power the phone off. You still feel hollow inside, the yearly donations just paper bills spinning down a gaping chasm. Thirty years after your accident, the problem only seems worse, with new technology bringing stronger highs and wider usage. How many deaths until we realize the risks? How many warning signs before we turn to exit?

Nextdoor, in the kitchen, Kat encourages her daughter to apply to a musical theatre program. Their words waft through the door’s open sliver: Kat’s muffled by age, her daughter’s by tears.

“I keep thinking,” A sniff sounds. The next words tumble out, strung together like broken Christmas lights. “What if I’m just not good enough?”

Turning to listen, you let the book fall shut against the back of your hand. A quiet rustling tells you Kat’s good arm is embracing her daughter. You can picture it: the lopsided leaning, like two uprooted trees.

“You know, giving up the thing you love to do...” Kat’s voice hesitates like a lost opportunity. “That can haunt you forever.”

Minutes pass before she finds you in the living room. She offers you a plate of dismembered gingerbread men, and the smoothness of her expression crushes your soul.