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console.
    â€œGun,” Chris said, his eyes no longer trained on the woods outside but on the guard in the back seat. The guard was fumbling with a lockbox of his own, his hands shaking so hard that it took him three tries to key in the right code.
    â€œShit, those aren’t Tasers,” I said as the driver jammed the clip into place and released the safety. I took one quick look around the van. No one had moved. No one had so much as sneezed.
    â€œWho?” I asked, completely confused as to where the threat was coming from. There were no tire tracks on the opposite side of the road, no masked men waving guns or demanding that we pull over.
    I cupped my hands around my eyes and leaned into the window, my vision honing in on the woods slowly creeping by. “Nothing. There’s nothing out there.”
    A glint of light caught my attention, and I leaned forward, shoving the guy in the seat in front of me aside so I had a clear view of the road. My pulse quickened, my hands clawing into the seat as I screamed at Chris to hang on. We had three seconds—five at most—to brace ourselves before we hit the van barreling toward us.

seven
    The entire world slowed down, every fiber of my being hyper-focusing on the chaos unfolding. Every smell, every sound, every broken cry echoed around me in unimaginable clarity.
    Our driver pounded his foot on the brake, but it was too late. We were skating all over the road, the snow-
covered pavement slick and uncooperative. The driver had two options: he could steer us away from the oncoming van and into the guardrail, or hit the other vehicle head-on.
    Our van’s brakes locked up, the high-pitched squeal reverberating through the van. Our driver yanked on the emergency brake, probably hoping to slow our momentum, but all that did was jam up the rear wheels, causing us to slide even more. We picked up speed, the backside of the van fishtailing, violently swinging us back and forth.
    The security guard in the back seat swore long and hard, then yelled at us to brace ourselves. The silence that followed was short and deafening, each one of us staring straight ahead. Watching. Waiting.
    The van lurched to the right, and I braced my feet against the metal frame of the seat in front of me as I prayed to whatever God was listening to let me live. Screams erupted seconds before we slammed into the other van. I pushed those panicked sounds to the back of my mind, my senses completely overtaken by the feel of the tires struggling to gain traction and the smell of fresh-cut pine and piss. All of them mingled together into one terrifying moment.
    The force of the collision tossed me backward. The van tipped, steadying itself at a perilous angle before slamming down onto the guardrail. It landed on its side, tearing through the metal. Through all the noise, I heard a thump—the unmistakable sound of someone’s head hitting the side of the van—immediately followed by a sickly warm spray of blood coating my seat. Coating me.
    The van slid downhill, a blur of shrieking metal and sparks igniting the air as we bounced from boulder to boulder. The snow did nothing to slow our descent, and we plowed into a tree, then rolled two times before jolting to a stop.
    Strangled breaths replaced the chaos, the sound too quiet to be comforting. Afraid that the slightest motion would set us tumbling again, I didn’t move. I didn’t even dare to blink. I simply lay there, listening to the unsettling silence.
    Tentatively, I stretched out my legs, then my arms, breathing a sigh of relieve at the sheer agony the movement brought. If I was in pain, then I was alive.
    I swept my hand out to my right, searching for Chris. My fingers landed on something solid and wet. I reluctantly turned my head, seeking him out.
    â€œChris?” I had to swallow twice to get that one word out. Even then, it was rough, the ragged sound sputtering from my chest in a strangled whisper. Chris