I started pounding on the trunk with my hands, screaming with every breath, “Fuck oh God, oh God, oh God. He’s totaled. He’s totaled.”
“You’re kidding me,” Daisy said as she walked to the back of Harold.
“You’re upset about the goddamned car? It’s a car, Holmesy. We almost died, and you’re worried about your car?”
I pounded on the trunk again, until Harold’s license plate slid off, but I couldn’t get it open.
“Are you crying about the car?” I could see the latch; I just couldn’t get it pried open,
and whenever I tried to lift, the pain in my ribs made my vision cloud up,
but I finally wrested the trunk open enough to reach my arm inside. I fumbled around until I found my dad’s phone.
The screen was shattered. I held the power button to turn it on, but beneath the branches of broken glass,
the screen only glowed a cloudy gray. I pulled myself back to the driver’s-side door and slumped into Harold’s seat,
my forehead on the steering wheel. I knew the pictures were backed up, that nothing had really been lost.
But it was his phone, you know? He’d held it, talked into it. Taken my picture with it.
I ran my thumb across the shattered glass and cried until I felt a hand on my shoulder.
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