Vanessa
The sound cuts off when I sit up, and the water swallows me to the waist. The cab is tilted, nose-down in a river; through the spiderwebbed windshield, a greenish light filters in—the reflection of the trees that seal the sky several yards above. It smells like hot metal and mud. Part of the truck is already sinking; I feel the cold tug at my legs, the weight of my clothes stuck to my body.
“Pamela…” It comes out as a thread. “I have to get out of here. Please, Pamela, I hope you got away.”
My hand trembles as it searches for the seat-belt buckle. On the second try, the click rings like a bell. I shove the door; the water shoves harder. It won’t give. I feel for the shattered glass on the passenger side; I gather air, wedge my shoulders through, the edge bites my jacket, rips my
