Chapter 7

I don’t remember the moment the car started to flip. That’s the part that keeps circling me like a shark. I remember wet asphalt, wipers on high, my mom’s perfume and cheap vanilla air freshener, someone laughing in the backseat. Headlights in the rearview. My hand reaching for— Then: nothing. Not the impact, not the first roll, not who screamed first. Just a jump cut. One frame of normal, then static. “You dissociate at the point of impact,” the therapist had said once. “Your...