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my hair, which annoyed me because it felt so icky. Worst of all was that they shaved a patch at my hairline and put in a few stitches to close the gash in my scalp. I would have to get creative with my hairstyles for the next few months. At last I was deposited in a nice cool, clean bed and the lights were turned low, which was a relief. Have I mentioned how much my head was hurting?
    What wasn't a relief was the way Wyatt and my entire family were ringed around the bed, silently staring at me.
    "This isn't my fault," I said defensively. It was weird, having them all sort of aligned against me, as if I'd done this on purpose or something. Even Siana had a solemn expression, and I can usually count on her to be in my court no matter what. I did understand, though, because if Wyatt had gotten hurt as often in the past few months as I had, I would be demanding he change jobs and we move to Outer Mongolia to get him out of the danger zone.
    Mom stirred. She had been as tight-lipped as Wyatt, but now she went into mom-mode and went to the miniature sink, where she wet a washcloth. Coming back to my bedside, she began gently washing away the dried blood that the nurses had skipped. I haven't had my ears washed by my mother since I was little, but some things never change. I was just glad she used water instead of spit. You know all the jokes about mom-spit removing everything from grease to ink? It's true. Mom-spit should be patented and sold as an all-purpose spot remover. Come to think of it, maybe it has been. I've never read the ingredients of a spot-remover. Maybe it just says mom-spit .
    Finally Wyatt said, "We're getting the security tapes for the parking lot, so we may be able to get a tag number for the car."
    I'd been hanging around him long enough now to understand some of the finer points of the law. "But she didn't hit me. When she floored the gas pedal, I dived out of the way. So it isn't a hit-and-run. It's a terrify-and-run."
    "She?" He picked up on that immediately, of course. "You saw her? Did you know her?"
    "I could tell it was a woman, but as to whether or not I know her…" I would have shrugged, but I was trying to keep movement to a minimum. "The headlights were shining in my eyes. The driver was a woman, and the car was a late-model Buick, that's all I know for certain. Parking lot lights do weird things to colors, but I think the car was that sort of metallic light brown."
    "You're sure it was a Buick?"
    "Please," I said with as much disdain as I could muster. I know cars. It's one of the weird genes Dad passed on to me, because all Mom can tell is the color and if it's a big car, little car, or pickup truck. Make and model mean nothing to her.
    "If she says it was a Buick, it's a Buick," said Dad, taking up for me, and Wyatt nodded. At any other time I would have been annoyed that he would automatically take Dad's word for it after questioning mine, but right then I was, not down and out, because I obviously wasn't out, but I was definitely down, both physically and mentally. I felt drained, not just from the pain, but it was as if this was just one incident too many. I mean, how many times can people try to kill you before it gets a little depressing? It isn't as if I go around pissing people off and getting in their faces. I don't even flip off stupid drivers because you never know if they've taken their antipsychotics or if they're driving around with a loaded pistol and an unloaded brain. I was tired of it, I was hurting, and I really wanted to cry.
    I couldn't cry, not in front of everyone. I'm not a crier, at least not that kind of a crier. I'll cry over a sad movie or when "The Star-Spangled Banner" is played at football games, but when it comes to the personal hardship stuff I generally just suck it up and go on. I had been hurt worse in my life, and I hadn't cried. If I cried now, it would be because I felt sorry for myself, which I did, but I didn't want to show it. It was bad enough that I