Going Dark by Robison Wells Page A

between our beds and turned it on.
    â€œKrezi,” she said quietly, “are you okay?”
    â€œShe’s got a fever,” Mama answered for me. “Santa Maria, bless us.”
    I walked slowly to my dresser and found my pajamas. I was okay when I didn’t move my head quickly, so I tried to just stare forward, not tilting my head up or down, or left to right.
    â€œA fever with a concussion? What does that mean?” Celia asked, sitting up. She was four years older than me, only a few months out of high school, but she’d always seemed more responsible than anyone else in the family—even my parents.
    â€œIt means she’s sick,” Mama said, “but the doctors don’t know what’s wrong with her.”
    I carefully pulled off my bloodied T-shirt. “It’s not serious,” I told Celia. “They don’t think the fever has anything to do with the concussion.”
    My mama’s voice was loud enough to wake the rest of the house. “It’s not serious, she says! My baby has a fever of one hundred and two degrees and she says it’s not serious!”
    I ignored her and finished changing clothes.
    â€œYou pay attention to her tonight,” Mama said to Celia. “I should probably come and sleep in this room.”
    â€œI’ll be fine, Mama,” I said, trying to ignore the pain that was pushing through the dwindling haze of the medicine. “I just want to sleep.”
    â€œThe doctor said she needs to rest her brain,” Mama told Celia. “I don’t know if she’ll be able to start school.”
    â€œMama.” I turned and felt a wave of dizziness. “The doctor said I should be fine by the time school starts.”
    She raised her hands to heaven. “The doctor doesn’t even know what’s giving you a fever!”
    â€œThe doctor told me to sleep,” I said, sitting gingerly on the bed. “That’s all I want to do.”
    Mama pointed a finger at Celia. “You keep an eye on your sister.” Her eyes softened, and she crossed to Celia and hugged her. “And you take care of yourself, too, my baby.”
    I lay down, pulling a sheet over myself. Our swamp cooler kept some of the desert heat out, but it was still a hot night—and my fever made me feel even warmer.
    Mama kissed me lightly on the forehead and turned off the lamp. “Good night, Lucretia. Remember to say your prayers.”
    â€œGood night, Mama.”
    It seemed like it took me a while to fall asleep, but I was too incoherent to know for sure. I tried to get comfortable, but every time I moved, the room would start to spin, or pain would zap through my face and skull. I was sweating, and I took off the bedsheet, but then I got chills and pulled it back on, along with my blanket.
    Celia stayed awake for a while, watching me through half-closed eyes, but eventually I heard her breathing turn slow and steady.
    I found myself imagining the accident over and over again, or maybe I was finally remembering what had happened. I was sitting next to Celia, and a massive blue-green car from the 1970s came roaring up behind us. I flew forward in slow motion, the dashboard getting closer and closer. The fake leather was cracked and dusty, and I noticed every detail—the chip in the windshield, the dead fly by the front vent, the corner of a receipt sticking out of the glove box. And then I smashed into the dash, felt my nose breaking, felt my brain ricochet around my skull, felt blood gush out my nostrils.
    I gripped the door handle as tight as I could, my eyes squeezed shut as I fought against the shock and pain in my face. Shattered glass exploded around me, peppering me with tiny crumbling shards. Celia was screaming.
    And I felt so hot. The warm blood on my lips and chin. The heat of the Nevada desert shining down through the open windshield. My hand on the sun-baked vinyl door handle.
    My hand was so hot.
    And Celia was