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→“I’m on my way. Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

→I crane my neck to look. “Falstone,” I say. I look for the closet mailbox. “I’m at 8109 Falstone Road.”

→“What street signs do you see? What stores?”

→“No, I’m fine. I’m just—” If I say another word, I will cry.

→“Are you hurt?” he demands.

→“I just got into a car accident. I don’t even know where I am. Can you come get me?” Wobble wobble.

→Which of course he hears, because he’s Josh. He comes to attention immediately and says, “What’s wrong?”

→I pull out my phone and call Josh. When he answers, I say, “Josh, can you do me a f-f-favor?” and my voice comes out so wobbly I’m embarrassed.

→I sit down on the curb and stare at Margot’s car. I’ve only had it for two hours and I’ve already wrecked it. I rest my head in my lap and sit in a tight bundle. My neck is starting to ache. This is when the tears start. My dad is not going to be happy. Margot is not going to be happy. They’ll both probably agree that I have no business driving around town unsupervised, and maybe they’re right. Driving a car is a lot of responsibility. Maybe I’m not ready for it yet. Maybe I’ll never be ready. Maybe even when I’m old, my sisters or my dad will have to drive me around, because that’s how useless I am.

→As soon as he’s gone, it occurs to me that maybe I should have called the police while he was still here. Aren’t you always supposed to call the police when you’re in a car accident, no matter what? I’m pretty sure they told us that in driver’s ed. So that’s another mistake I made.

→The man drives off.

→“No, thank you.” What if he’s a serial killer or a child molester? I don’t want to be alone with a strange man.

→He makes a grunty sound. “You should call someone to come get you,” the man says. “Do you want me to wait?”

→The lump in my throat is getting bigger. “I’m very, very sorry, sir.”

→“Kids need to be more careful,” the man says, as if I haven’t spoken.

→I nod again. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

→He seems to sense this. The irritated furrow of his brow is loosening. “Well, my car looks fine,” he says reluctantly. “Are you all right?”

→I shake my head; my throat is closing up. I just don’t want to cry. As long as I don’t cry . . .

→My legs shake as I get out of the car. The other guy is already out, inspecting his car with his arms crossed. He’s old, older than my dad, and he has gray hair, and he’s wearing shorts with red lobsters on them. His car is fine; mine has a huge dent in the side. “Didn’t you see the stop sign?” he demands. “Were you texting on your phone?”

→I scream my head off. I taste copper in my mouth. Am I bleeding? Did I bite my tongue off? I touch it and it’s still there. My heart is racing; my whole body feels wet and clammy. I try to take deep breaths, but I can’t seem to get air.