The van skidded sideways in the mud, the rear tires spraying wet earth onto the pristine pines.
"Brake!" I shouted, grabbing the dashboard.
Phoenix slammed his foot down. The van jerked to a violent halt inches from the massive oak tree—the same tree he had hit in the future timeline.
The engine sputtered and died. Silence rushed back into the forest, heavy and damp.
I let out a breath I had been holding for ten seconds. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Calculation error," Phoenix whispered, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. "The friction coefficient of the mud was higher than predicted. I overcompensated."
"You didn't calculate," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "You panicked."
"I do not panic," the boy stated, though his voice wavered. "Panic is an ine
