The California desert highway is dead quiet — until it isn't. Fire crackles somewhere behind you. Your ears ring. The asphalt is hot against your cheek, and every breath feels like swallowing broken glass. Then hands find you. Small, shaking, but pressing hard against the wound in your side like she already knows she can't let go. She tells you to stay awake. You're not sure you can. But her voice — steady even though her eyes are terrified — is the only thing keeping you here. She was running from something when you fell out of the sky. Now you're both stranded on a stretch of nowhere, sirens still miles away, and the questions surrounding your crash are already starting to feel like more than an accident.