The only other times I’ve felt like I do right now is when I’ve just been in a car accident. I mean, right after that moment of impact, after feeling a two-ton, swiftly moving metal machine come to an abrupt halt, slamming every bit of its kinetic energy into the rear of your own vehicle, which is innocently waiting at a red light.

During those moments, there’s a brief little ripple of denial, at least for me.

That didn’t just happen. No way. It was nothing. I can just keep driving like normal.

That’s the way I feel about seeing Braden tear into my meeting with Harrison like the proverbial bat out of hell.

That’s an expression I now understand all too well.

That kind of ferociousness is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, from Braden or anyone. It’s as unreal as a sudden accident, except this is no accident.

Although Braden’s long gone now, I’m starting to register it as reality. Harrison recovering from Braden’s blow to the face is driving it home.

This isn’t happenstance; this is a huge fucking complication that I need to adjust to, somehow, although with the other complication of Harrison stalking toward me and looking pissed, I don’t know if that’s possible.

“This is what’s going to happen,” he begins, and I immediately go wide-eyed, trying to convey that I have no clue what’s going on.

I watch Harrison, waiting to hear what he’ll say next, but there are no more words. I’m face down on the ground, feeling Harrison’s grip on my arms and the cold sting of metal around my wrists. I yell wordlessly in protest, but it’s over before I grasp everything that’s happening.

I hear Harrison stand up, and I climb up unsteadily, using my legs until I’m standing as well.

My hands are cuffed tightly behind my back, and I’m trying to push away another bout of denial about this mess.

I don’t have time for that before Harrison shoves me hard with both hands.

I twist to my right side while plummeting back to the ground. I don’t have the option of using a hand to break my fall and though I instinctually fall on my right shoulder, I don’t know if those instincts are right.

My shoulder slams against the paved roadway, and pain radiates through me from the point of impact. My right arm takes some of the brunt of the fall, which is probably the only reason I don’t seem to have any major injuries as I squirm on the ground and try to stand up again.

I roll over onto my right side, and I hear Harrison’s car start, followed immediately by the sound of him burning rubber after Braden.

There are a few more complications now, to say the least.

I sit up readily as a fresh wave of adrenaline hits. I need to get to my car. Now.

I try to get back upright, only to find a fresh tremor of sharp pain from my right arm. I close my eyes and will myself back on my feet with random bursts of agony that are thankfully getting duller as they go on.

Feeling dizzy, with a throbbing ache still going through my shoulder, I half stagger, half gallop around, almost blindly, until I magnetically end up outside the driver’s side of my car.

I shut my eyes, cursing my past self for closing the door. I revolve myself around so that my left hand is lined up with the handle, and I’m able to get enough grip to lift the handle and get the door open a couple inches.

I walk backward gingerly and pry open the door with my left foot, leaning against the car for balance.

My keys are still in the ignition. At least they’re not in one of my front pockets.

I try sitting in the driver’s seat, facing forward. Fuck. If I can’t even turn the key, I probably won’t be able to steer.

I turn my right side toward the keys helplessly, feeling the fading bursts of pain from my shoulder. I don’t even get close to turning the key that way.

I kick the floor mat in frustration, and I’d love to do that a few more times while yelling at the futility of trying to catch up with Braden and Harrison, but there’s no time.

I twist over onto my right side, trying to turn around in the seat, but it still hurts just a little too fucking much for that. I sit forward again, let out a sigh, give the floor mat a huge kick, and with a yell, I start twisting again, turning counter clockwise onto my left side.

I start grunting with every movement as it gets more and more uncomfortable. I try to keep my legs and feet from hitting the steering wheel and everything else.

I’m not as graceful as I could be.

Once I’m facing backward in the seat, I’m able to reach the door handle to try and pull it closed.

It closes; hopefully I’ll be able to get it open again. I try not to think about the situation I’ll be in when I need to.

I slowly reach toward the ignition with my left hand, pulling my right arm and shoulder with it.

I start letting out an ongoing primal yell to conduct the pain away. I stop when I feel the plastic of the key grip in my left hand.

And I turn it.

Now the engine’s started, and it’s just a small matter of getting myself forward again.

And getting the car in gear.

And steering.

And catching up with Harrison and Braden and then...

I stop considering all of it, and I twist right back around so I’m facing forward.

I lean as far right as I can, gritting my teeth. I press my right arm down on the automatic gear shifter.

Okay, okay, it isn’t so bad. I’m seeing flashes of white light, and I’m yelling inadvertently, but I start moving the shifter backward.

Oh, no, oh, please, I can’t pass out...

After moving the lever back two spots, I snap back up reflexively. My arm and my shoulder are refusing to cooperate with that any longer.

Now I’m in neutral, and the car is moving whether I’m ready for it or not. I close my knees tight around the bottom half of the steering wheel, my feet just barely able to reach the accelerator and the brake.

Steering is surprisingly easy, but the car’s moving faster than I thought it would, with a slight downhill slope heading away from the racetrack. I close my eyes again, and with an aggressive scream of pain and fury, I lean over and shift the transmission one more spot, putting the car in drive.

Getting onto public streets, I’m trying to look and act casual. I’m confused enough at this point. I don’t want extra attention.

I’m coasting along at about 35, trying to ease on the brake to not go much faster. I don’t think catching up with Braden is a hope worth harboring. He’s probably somewhere in Connecticut by now. Or Maine.

Why did he show up anyway? There’s no coincidence here that much is certain.

How much did he know beforehand? Why did he grab those false documents? How could he know they’re false? He can’t. He doesn’t know that I made my own fake blueprints.

I know this is bad, but it’s getting worse.

I pump the brakes slightly, getting into a busier area. I don’t feel like moving this slow anymore, but I know my only other choice is to make the next right, and those few blocks are not ones you’d want to steer with your knees.

Fuck, that’s probably where Braden went with the blueprints. He has way more control than I do right now, but he knows way less about the situation. That’s a horrible combination of circumstances, just like trying to navigate away from the fairly even grid of straight streets I’m on to try and pilot this car along the alpine windiness around the next corner.

On a good day, with full use of my limbs, accelerator, and brake pedal, I can do just fine on those precipitous drops and sudden curves. In my current condition, I can probably do okay. Besides, I need to save Braden’s ass.

I blow right through a yellow light just changing to red, now dropping to around 30, approaching the right turn. There’s less of a slope now. I’m dropping in speed, and jamming on the accelerator is not doing much.

I thought I knew these streets as well as anyone, but as I try to maintain my speed and steering, I’m learning about the subtle changes in terrain, about the way this street slopes down more approaching the turn as the speedometer approaches 40.

I ease down on the brake pedal, watching the speedometer needle fall too fast. I’m almost at the turn, though, a sharp right—sharper than any turn I’ve tried yet while handcuffed and driving with my knees.

My speed is down to around 20 with the turn, and I violently twist toward the right. There’s still an aching pressure on my right side, but that’s almost gone. Better still, my tense dance steers the car peacefully around the corner before the power steering takes over.

Braden must have someone inside the FBI. Why the fuck didn’t I think about that?

I spot Braden’s car on the street ahead of me, traveling at a moderate speed but starting to seriously accelerate as Harrison tries to keep up with him.

And I know now, this can’t end well.