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other, chewing on an acrylic thumbnail on her other hand. The cop who’d given Jayne the thumbs-up was now leaning over the driver’s seat and concentrating on whoever was in the passenger side.
    Not whoever, Jayne. A little girl. A little girl is sitting there. Or lying there.
    Or suffering there .
    â€œYeah. I’d put her at maybe five, six years old.” The woman attempted a comforting smile, but it didn’t quite work. The tears in her eyes were the giveaway.
    Jayne continued taking shallow breaths through her mouth as the tears ran down her cheeks. She didn’t even try to stop them.
    â€œIs sh-she okay?”
    The clerk looked past Jayne, avoiding her eyes. “I don’t think so, hon.”

6
    ROOM 208, RIGHT?”
    Jayne opened her eyes as she heard her mom’s no-nonsense voice in the hallway. She’d been dozing on and off thanks to whatever drugs they were pumping through her IV, and her mind was fuzzy around the edges.
    The fuzziness was a good thing. It was helping her forget about the sound of squealing tires, breaking glass, and crunching metal. The smell of burned rubber. The tiny flecks of dust from the air bag.
    The red car and the woman with the look of terror on her face.
    The paramedics had arrived soon after the motorcycle cops. They’d put Jayne into the ambulance before she had had a chance to figure out what was going on with the red car. Or the little girl.
    Jayne pushed the memories aside. The neck brace kept her from looking anywhere but straight, thanks to a slight case of whiplash. A splint was taped to her nose, which had been reset by the docs here. Her left arm was immobilized from her fingers to her elbow thanks to a broken wrist.
    She looked disinterestedly at the tray that had been placed at the foot of the bed. It held a bowl of green Jell-O and a yellow plastic cup holding a straw and what had to be lukewarm water.
    She hadn’t touched either. She had no appetite. And she wasn’t thirsty enough to want to move and test the effectiveness of the pain meds.
    Gen Thompkins pushed through the door, her face perfect in its on-camera makeup and the dim light of the room. Her face had a studied look of concern, like the kind she wore when she talked to teenagers who drowned their babies.
    For a second, Jayne wondered if she was now in the same league as baby-drowners.
    The click of her mother’s stilettos sounded loud in the small, sterile room. Jayne looked at the clock by the wall-mounted TV. It was 9:02. Shelly from the morning show must’ve been filling in for Arizona’s number-one Emmy-winning newscaster.
    â€œGood, you’re awake.”
    In the dim light of the room, her mom looked like the local celebrity she was. Her face was poreless, her eyes were enhanced to be greener, and her lips were perfectly plumped—just enough to make viewers wonder whether they were natural or not. (They were not.)
    The only difference tonight was that Gen’s eyes and the edge of her nose looked a little red. Which was weird. Jayne’s mom was usually really good at making sure her foundation and powder covered the telltale signs of her spring allergies.
    â€œHi.” Jayne smoothed a strand of blonde hair behind an ear. Her hand brushed the ponytail at the nape of her neck. She slipped off the elastic band and smoothed out the tangles. There was no point in keeping it in. It wasn’t like she was going to tennis practice today. Or tomorrow. Or the rest of this season.
    Based on what the doctor had told her, she’d be sidelined for the next six weeks. She’d be getting her cast off just in time for summer vacation. Or, in Jayne’s case, summer school.
    Jayne listened to the clock ticking across the room, letting her thoughts drift. Summer school. It seemed so far away. So . . . not important.
    â€œThe doctor told me your broke your nose and your wrist.” Her mom sat on the bed, unbuttoning her turquoise blazer