Excerpt from "Water Eyes" by Matt Brock

Matt Brock has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Mississippi and a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Tennessee. He has published fiction and nonfiction in anthologies and journals such as Appalachia Now: Stories of Contemporary Appalachia, War, Literature & the Arts, The Chattahoochee Review, The Greensboro Review, The Arkansas Review, Bayou Magazine, Quarterly West, and elsewhere. He teaches at Gulf Coast State College. "Water Eyes" is a chapter from his latest novel-in-progress. 

Excerpted from

Water Eyes

1.

Wewa. It was a stupid name, something a baby would say: Mommy, Mommy, wewa, wewa.

Wewahitchka was okay. In Seminole it meant “water eyes.” Why people called it Wewa, she didn’t know. Maybe they were racist. Maybe they were too lazy to say the whole word. Her teachers and parents called her lazy, but she wasn’t. She didn’t like school, Wewa High. She hated it as much as the town. Even if people started saying the whole word, she would still hate them both.

She thought about these things a lot. Especially if her mom and dad were fighting. She’d bury her face in the pillow as the trailer shook and they went through the same old lines:

I done did the dishes three times this week!

I wish I never married your ass!

She thought about killing herself. The times she’d “tried” she couldn’t bring herself to do it right, the thin sideways scars on her wrist a testament to her failures. According to GarGirls.org, that meant she wasn’t serious, just “asking for help.” She guessed if you were going to be lazy about something, suicide was a good choice.

Lately, there was a little hop to her step, a smile at the corner of her mouth. She had a secret. She felt something akin to happy.

It was July, thick and hot, the old HVAC system out back wheezing like it had COPD.

Sparrow Wooten was blowdrying her hair. A tall, tanned brunette with bright highlights and her dad’s dimpled chin, she wore underwear and a bra and straddled the doorway of the tiny bathroom, trying to keep from sweating.

Her mom, home from the buffet, stopped in the hallway and waited to get by. She said something. Sparrow turned off the hairdryer. “Huh?”

Her mom’s Salty Cracker shirt was splotched with grease, her mascara smudged. “Where

you headed?”

“To church.”

“Oh?” Her mom’s tired eyes brightened. “What are they having?”

“Vacation Bible School.”

“Me and your daddy need to get going again.”

Sparrow let out a puff of air like she’d heard the dumbest thing in the world. “I ain’t going to church. I’m meeting Raynell at the Dollar Store. Then we’re eating Subway.”

She started the hairdryer again and her mom squeezed past, leaving the hallway smelling of hushpuppies. In truth, Sparrow wasn’t having a typical Wewa Saturday night. This was the night, the reason why, if not happy, at least she didn’t feel depressed.

An hour later, she came into the living room. She wore jean shorts and sandals, a pink crop top that stopped above her belly button. She’d put on a little blush and lipstick, some Juicy Couture. She had her tasseled purse on one shoulder, her guitar case in her hand.

Her mom was spread out on the couch in a ratty “house dress” as she called it, scrolling on her phone. “You look pretty.”

“Thanks.”

“A hurricane’s coming.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Will it hit us?”

“It’s headed west.”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Where he always is.”

“Bye.”

“Be careful.”

Sparrow went out the front door and hopped down the cinderblock steps. It was a quarter after six, the temperature still in the nineties, the “feels like” near a hundred along with the humidity. Already she felt her hair falling flat, her shorts sticking to her thighs. Her faded blue Corolla was parked in the weedy lawn. She opened the door, leaned away from the blast of heat, then slid the guitar case inside.

She walked between the vehicles in the driveway, her dad’s F-150 without a bed and her mom’s dented up Durango. She found him in his old Bayliner Rendezvous that hadn’t moved from behind the trailer in years. His rear end was poking out of the bow, dingy Wranglers riding low. “Say no to crack,” said Sparrow.

He sat up holding a mess of wires. His face sweaty and red, he looked over the gunwale and into the distance as if dazed. They lived on a half-acre square cut out of a cattle pasture, the smell of manure from the landlord’s Angus always in the air. “Head rush,” he said. “Get me a beer.”

In the gravel was his mildewed ice chest. Sparrow opened the lid and grabbed a Busch Lite floating in the tepid water. She popped the top with her hot pink fingernail and reached it up to him. He took a long drink, wiped his chin. “Where are you going?”

“Out with Raynell. Can I have some money?”

“Did you already blow your paycheck?”

“I ordered a vlogging kit.”

“A what?”

“A new microphone and some things for my channel.”

“That reminds me. The other night I was fogging and saw this guy outside Exxon with his phone on one of those sticks. He was filming hisself sharing a Slurpee with a cat. Why would anybody want to watch that?”

“Were they both drinking the Slurpee?”

“Yes.”

“I’d watch it.”

He rolled his eyes. “People are willing to embarrass the hell out of theirselves to get famous. I know you take your music seriously. You’re getting pretty good with that guitar. Like I always said, you got a voice about like LeAnne Rimes. But you need to focus on school first.”

Sparrow smiled. She wanted so badly to tell him her secret.

“What are you grinning about?”

“You.”

He shook his head, reached into his pocket and removed a wallet bulging with receipts.

He handed her a twenty. “Be good.”

She turned to go. “I will.”

As she backed away from the single-wide with its orange shutters and tarpatched roof, the metal skirting dented from rocks slung out of the mower, for a second she wondered if she was making the right decision. She didn’t like lying to her parents. One day, they’d understand.

She’d rescue them too—her mom from the endless platters of fried seafood, her dad from the duct-taped seat of his county mosquito truck. They’d never have to sweat to death in a HUD trailer on a dead end road again.

She drove toward the highway. A thought came to her: Dead ends don’t lead to dead dreams. She’d use that one in a song.

It had all started with a song. Sitting on a bench by Lake Alice after nearly flunking out of her junior year, she’d filmed herself. On the guitar she strummed C, G and D. She sang like usual, soft and trembling. She called it “Wewahitchka”:

Water eyes watching over this town,

Lakes that look but don’t make a sound.

I’ve got water eyes, pain hidden inside.

I tell it to the lakes, but they don’t confide.

This town’s got me trapped like roots in the clay.

I run and I run but I never get away.

I’m drowning in a life too heavy to leave,

but water don’t care, it don’t grieve for me.

Water eyes, staring deep and wide,

They see the truth that I try to hide.

Reflections and ripples show what’s real,

But I don’t know what I should feel.

They watch me cry, they watch me break.

They hold my tears inside their wake.

The song came from a poetry assignment for English class. Mrs. Kilgore gave her a C because the instructions said to write a sonnet. Out of spite, Sparrow set it to music and posted it on her Youtube channel, “Sparrow Sings.” Until now, she’d only uploaded covers. This was her first original work.

After a few days, she regretted it. None of her 37 followers gave a crap. The more she watched the video, the worse it got. Wind whooshed through the mic as loud as a blowtorch. A car horn honked right in the middle of the chorus. A high note made her face look like she was having a stroke. She was about to delete the video when a comment appeared.

@Florida_Music_Man: You’ve got something special! Ever think about recording professionally?

She reread the words, searching for sarcasm. They seemed sincere. When she clicked on the account, though, it was nearly empty. No playlists or subscribers. Was it a bot? Somebody messing with her? She didn’t respond.

Then she noticed a message request on Instagram.

@Florida_Music_Man: Wewahitchka. Isn’t that where Ulee’s Gold was filmed?

Oh, God, thought Sparrow. The town’s only claim to fame. Who wanted to watch a movie about a beekeeper? Her mom still bragged about the time Peter Fonda tipped her fifty dollars for a cup of coffee, like it was the highlight of her existence. “Yeah,” she wrote.

@Florida_Music_Man: Cool! Is that where you live? I’m over in Destin. Name’s Chase, btw.

Sparrow knew better than to tell a stranger where she lived. “Sort of,” she typed back.

“Close enough.”

She examined his profile, his pic a green silhouette of Florida with FLORIDA MUSIC MAN stamped across it. His bio: Indie Producer / A&R Rep / Helping Artists Get Heard Destin, FL DM for inquiries

He had zero posts and followed about twenty accounts, mostly big names like Chris Stapleton, Megan Moroney and Zach Bryan, plus some random indie acts. His grid had a few studio shots and photos of shiny Fenders. A black-and-white pic showed a man sitting at a soundboard wearing a V-neck and jeans, headphones slung around his neck. He looked mid- thirties, too old for Sparrow but handsome. Curly hair, stubble, the kind of scruffy that took work. Like that guy from Yellowstone—not the traumatized rancher or the traumatized ranch hand but the traumatized rancher’s traumatized son—whatever his name was. She figured it was all fake.

Then he sent her another message. “Btw, this account’s new. I just got it up and running. I left a big label up in Atlanta, came back to my roots to start my own boutique thing here in the Panhandle. 2 many sharks up there. I prefer the ones that don’t wear suits.”

Sparrow googled A&R Rep. “Repertoire,” huh? Fancy. A talent scout? Hmm. Still, she wasn’t convinced. Her spidey senses tingled.

Then another message popped up.

@Florida_Music_Man: You’re literally the first artist I’ve contacted since I went off on my own. I just stumbled onto your channel. And we’re only a little ways down the road from each other. Serendipity!

Sparrow looked up that word, too. A lucky accident, a pleasant surprise. She liked it. And he’d called her an artist. Nobody had ever done that.

@sparrowsingssongs: Fr?

@Florida_Music_Man: Fr. I’m building my client list. I’d like to put your name at the top. It’s perfect btw, ur name.

Suddenly, Sparrow felt her heart do a weird little flip. She had packed her posts with hashtags—#850Music, #FloribamaFolk, #PanhandleCountry, #ForgottenCoastTunes, #singersongwriter, #Americana, #acoustic—for this exact reason. She just didn’t think it would ever work. Maybe this was her big break, that once-in-a-lifetime connection artists talked about.

Serendipity.

@sparrowsingssongs: Thx.

For the next few weeks, they messaged back and forth. He asked questions and she opened up. She told him about her influences (Cassadee Pope, Brandi Carlile, Emmylou Harris), how her dad taught her the guitar. He complimented her covers, her voice, her playing, her potential. He dropped terms she had to look up: EPs, mastering, distro deals. He mentioned a close friend, a record executive with a vacation home on St. George Island. “I can’t tell you his name,” he wrote. “Dude stays private. But trust me, you’d know his clients.”

Then, nothing.

A week went by. Sparrow checked her phone constantly. She told herself she wasn’t waiting for him, but every time a notification pinged, hope surged through her. It was never him.

Had she said something wrong? Did he change his mind? Her excitement curdled into despair.

She felt stupid for thinking he might actually sign her, that their chats had meant something. She thought she should delete her channel, quit singing for good, accept the fact she would work at

 the IGA for the rest of her life.

But just yesterday, while she was stocking canned vegetables, her phone buzzed.

@Florida_Music_Man: Remember my buddy? The record exec? He’s in St. George this weekend. I told him about you. He wants to hear you sing. In person. Like an audition.

@sparrowsingssongs: Omg. Fr?

@Florida_Music_Man: Dead serious. U ready?

@sparrowsingssongs: What do I have to do?

@Florida_Music_Man: Can I get ur number? Gonna make this way easier.

@sparrowsingssongs: At work rn. Can’t talk.

@Florida_Music_Man: I’ll give you mine. Call when u get a sec. This is BIG!

During her lunch break, Sparrow went out back. Standing by the cardboard crusher, she took a hit from her vape pen. The number he’d given her had an 850 area code. It rang four times before he answered. “Yo, this is Chase.”

“Hi. It’s me. Sparrow.”

“Hey! I was starting to think you changed your mind.”

His voice was warm and friendly, so normal. He sounded like people she knew. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m at work.”

“No worries. Where do you work?”

“The IGA. I hate it.”

“That’s the hustle, right? I bet you’d rather be in a studio.”

“I’ve never been in one before.”

“Trust me. You’ll love it.”

She let out a squeaky little laugh and felt embarrassed. “So,” she said, “your friend?”

“I’m going to visit him tomorrow. We can meet somewhere and you can follow me. You have a car, right?”

“It’s a piece of junk.”

“I get it. You should’ve seen the clunkers I used to drive. Anyway, if you come, it’ll be a private thing. You, me and him. His wife will be there too. And his kids. He’s got twin girls. I’m their godfather. His wife does his marketing stuff. You can talk to her about your YouTube channel, see how to get more subscribers. They’re good people.”

“I mean, I’d have to ask my mom.”

He went quiet for a few seconds. Sparrow heard only background noise. It sounded like he was driving. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m looking for my turn. What were you saying? Oh, right, your mom. Actually, it’s probably best not to tell anyone. Like I mentioned, he’s very private.

Nobody down there knows what he does for a living. He’s on vacation, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Sparrow, uncertainty creeping into her tone.

“Look, there’s no pressure. I just don’t know when this opportunity will come around again, if ever. Most people would kill for a shot like this. If you want big things to happen, you’ve gotta take big risks.”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m about to pull up to a meeting and have to get off here. She’s another potential client I found, like you. Sleep on it, okay? But if you’re in, I need to know by tomorrow so I can tell him who’s coming.”

“Okay.”

“And Sparrow?”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

For the rest of the afternoon, as she stocked shelves and rang up groceries, she couldn’t stop replaying the call in her mind. She wanted to say yes. He’d found her. He believed in her. If she said no, she might regret it forever. And who was this client he mentioned? Sparrow didn’t want whatever her name was at the top of his list. She already hated her.

On the other hand, she didn’t know this man. But he wasn’t exactly a stranger, was he?

And she wouldn’t be alone with him. Other people would be there. It wasn’t like he’d told her she had to get in his car and ride with him. She was going to follow him. She wanted to ask Raynell or her mom about it. But what if that ruined everything?

By the time her shift ended, she was still undecided. Then, some strange things happened.

Her last customer’s total came to $33.33. When she clocked out, the time read 3:33. Sparrow was superstitious about threes. Great songs were built on three chords. She tapped her guitar three times before playing. During her short-lived softball career, she’d worn number 33.

She told herself if she saw one more three before she got home, she’d go.

It didn’t take long. When she drove past Burger King, she saw some some crows in the parking lot. Three of them, fussing over a carton of fries. She felt a flutter in her chest. She couldn’t believe it. Somebody or something—God? The universe?—was telling her to take th leap.

The drive through Wewa was slow. She got caught at every red light and had to detour around a dug up water line. Then a grandmother in a battered black Oldsmobile pulled out in front of her, driving like she was leading a funeral procession. She inched past all three churches and the Feed and Seed, the empty old buildings of downtown, faded For Sale signs in the dusty windows.

American flags from the Fourth still hung on telephone poles, limp in the heavy, hot air. Alligator eyes glared from signs on the elementary school fence.

Here was the IGA. Bye, you hellhole!

Here was Raynell’s trailer park. See ya, bitch!

When they finally reached the edge of town, Sparrow hit the gas and passed the old lady.

She barreled southward at 70 miles per hour, the Corolla vibrating like its wheels could come loose. Nothing ahead but scrubland and straight highway, the sun hanging low and red over the knobby pines.

According to Google Maps, she had 45 miles to go. Last night, she’d texted Chase: I’m in

He’d responded with a thumbs up. A while later: Can u meet me in apalach at 8pm?

Curfew is 11 tho

Np. It won’t take long. 30 mins or so. U can leave whenever. Let’s meet at the River Inn. It’s close to the highway.

Ok

Ur gonna kill it!

As she drove, she opened her messages and went to Hungry Howie’s, the name she’d given his contact in case her mom happened to start snooping on her phone. She told him she was on the way.

After a few seconds, he responded: Me 2. Running a little late. Traffic was crazy in Destin. Just wait on me. I’ll be in the black benz

A Mercedes. Fancy. She pictured it, sleek and glossy. It wasn’t like she’d never seen one before, but still, it meant something. Like he probably wasn’t a serial killer.

K

Then he sent her a smiley face emoji along with a fire and three guitars. There it was again, three, but that didn’t make her any less nervous about the audition.

She thought about how it would go. She had little experience interacting with 30-year-old men, so in her mind, she equated Chase with her Social Studies teacher, Mr. Branch. But Chase seemed way more put-together than her teacher, who always had coffee breath and got so excited about Civil War battles he stuttered. And what about the record executive and his wife? They’d have the kind of look money gave people. Skin too smooth for their age, perfect white teeth.

Their clothes would seem casual but probably cost more than her car. She imagined their beach house had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Gulf, expensive furniture nobody sat on. Did he have a studio in his house? Is that what Chase meant?

She shook her head and took a hit from her vape pen, told herself to stop it. She’d done this before, tried to anticipate an unfamiliar situation, built it up in her mind to be completely wrong. It never played out like she imagined. Overthinking only made her more nervous. What she needed to do was decide which songs she would sing. “Wewahitchka” for sure and maybe a cover from Carlisle or Pope. For fun, she might sing another original, one she’d never shared called “No-See-Him.”

As the evening fell over the flatland and the occasional logging truck rushed past in the other lane, shaking her car, she hummed the melody. She sang:

He’s like a no-see-um in the summer heat.

He’ll tear you up and you won’t even see.

His love will burn, his love will sting,

And he’ll be gone before you feel a thing.

She reached Port St. Joe at a little after seven. She was on her period and needed to stop.

Near the intersection of 71 and 30A, she pulled into the Chevron. She spent a minute in the bathroom, then grabbed a bottle of Zephyrhills and waited while a woman in a bathing suit decided on lottery tickets. When it was Sparrow’s turn, she set her things on the counter and asked the tired-looking man behind the register for a cartridge of Mango Ice. She wasn’t eighteen yet, but attendants usually just looked at the birth year on her license. This one didn’t even card her. She walked out of the store with her water, vape and three dollars to her name.

A squatted Silverado idled near the ice freezer, its tailgate practically grazing the pavement. Two guys leaned from the windows. They wore flat-billed hats with fluffy mullets curling out the backs, their lower lips swollen with dip. “Hey, girl,” the driver called. “Wanna go party?”

“We got a extra seat,” said the passenger. “Or you can sit on my lap.”

Sparrow cocked her head like she was examining a museum exhibit titled FloGrown.

“Thanks,” she said, “but I don’t ride in trucks that look like they’re trying to take a dump.”

The boys blinked under their brims as if unsure whether they were supposed to laugh or feel insulted. To make it clear, she added over her shoulder, “Y’all have fun squatting together.”

She laughed as she climbed back into the Corolla. Boys like that were so easy. As predictable as boiled peanut stands and bad tattoos. She was done with them. She was after something bright and wide open, a future in a higher key.

She headed east, 30A skirting St. Joe Bay as it led away from town. The sun was a fading glow on the horizon, the sky a deep indigo. Out over the water, seagulls wheeled in their erratic patterns as if unsure where they were going. Pelicans perched on dock pilings like displeased dads. Sparrow cracked her window. The warm, salty air smelled like vacation.

Traffic was heavy with tourists. The Subaru in front of her had a Tennessee tag, its hatchback stuffed with beach chairs and an inflatable flamingo. On the porch of the raw bar, sunburned couples in summer dresses and khaki shorts drank cocktails in plastic cups. The marina was packed. String lights glowed under RV awnings. A haze of grill smoke hung in the palms. She passed recently built houses balanced on concrete stilts, bikes and kayaks clustered beneath carports. At the turnoff to Cape San Blas, a sign in the median displayed beach warning flags, from purple to double red.

She remembered the year her family vacationed there. She was eleven. Her dad had won the March Madness contest at work, the prize a two-night stay at a rental house. It wasn’t fancy, no pool or hot tub, but it was on the beach. This was before, according to her dad, the Forgotten Coast got Found. Even then, Sparrow knew they were out of place. She was embarrassed from the minute they sputtered up in her parents’ turd brown Bronco. They ate bologna sandwiches and watched rich kids crack crab claws from the deck of the house next door. To top it off, Sparrow almost drowned.

One day when her mom had gone inside and her dad was halfway through a twelve-pack, she was swimming in the waves. The bottom suddenly dropped away, the current yanking her under. She tried to scream but choked on a mouthful of saltwater. Everything blurred, blue and terrifying, and she was sure she was about to die right then and there in her rainbow tankini.

Then she felt hands under her arms, her father’s urgent voice: Kick, baby, kick.

She drove on, thinking one day, she’d return. Not as the poor girl in the rusty Bronco eating bologna sandwiches but as someone who belonged.

Traffic thinned after she passed the Cape. She leaned over the steering wheel, squinting into her dim headlights as the dark highway tunneled through pines and palms. Oncoming cars passed with blinding LEDs. She watched the ditches for some wild creature to leap from the brush and ruin her night.

Then her phone chimed. Raynell was texting her. Wyd?

Driving to apalach

Ok wow thx for the invite lol

Srry it’s for my music

Lol right. Fr tho? Who u meeting? Another creep from the Christian academy?

No!!!

🍆 🍆 🍆 🤣17

Sparrow tossed her phone into the passenger seat. Three “eggplants.” Not the omen she was looking for. That’s what she got for sharing her secret. Raynell took AP classes and made good grades. In a year, she’d be living in a dorm in Tallahassee or Gainesville. She’d join a sorority, make new friends and probably never come back to Wewahitchka. This was Sparrow’s only shot. It didn’t matter if nobody had faith in her. She was going to prove them wrong.

After a long few miles, the dense forest gave way to sandy lawns of homes and trailers.

Sparrow could see Apalachicola Bay. Docks stretched out over the grassy flats, silhouettes black and broken in the last light. A mound of shells rose high and pale beside the oyster company warehouse. The air smelled sweet and briny, freshly shucked.

She passed the Best Western, then the Piggly Wiggly lot crowded with people pushing buggies through the orange haze of sodium lamps. Behind a wrought iron fence was the cemetery. Old tombstones leaned beneath the live oaks, Spanish moss draped like burnt lace from their limbs. She drove past cottages painted in coastal hues, each with hurricane shutters and second story porches. Downtown was busy. Golf carts swerved across intersections. People walked dogs, ate ice cream on the sidewalk, flowed in and out of restaurants and boutiques.

At the brewing company, she heard the laughter and loud conversation around wooden tables packed with pints of Tate’s Helles and Hooter Brown. She turned right on Water Street and saw in her rearview the mast lights bright above the shrimp boats, deckhands readying their nets for a night on the Gulf. She drove slowly, dodging potholes and sewer covers, past bungalows hidden behind shaggy palms.

Finally, at a few minutes before eight, she arrived. But when she pulled into the empty parking lot of the River Inn, she immediately realized it was closed down. The building was18 dark, not a single light on. The purple siding had faded to a chalky pink, paint peeling from rotten boards and latticework. The canvas on the portico had been ripped away, the door to the lobby left open. Mildewed mattresses were stacked beside a large dumpster, old drapes hanging over the edge, blowing in the breeze.

Sparrow sat there in the idling car, looking at the place in her headlights. It seemed strange to meet here. Before she could decide what to do, her phone chimed again.

Hungry Howie’s: U made it yet?

Sparrow: Yes

Hungry Howie’s: I’m 10 mins away. Sorry to make u wait

Something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was just the building, which looked like the setting for a chainsaw massacre. Chase probably didn’t realize it was abandoned either. And the highway was close by as he’d said, headlights blinking back and forth along the bridge over the bay a few hundred yards away.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement. She looked to see a woman approaching from the road. She was about Sparrow’s mom’s age, wore a red floral shirt, khaki capris, white tennis shoes. Her hair was tied up and she carried a big purse over one shoulder. A tourist, thought Sparrow.

The woman smiled and waved, then leaned toward Sparrow’s window, holding out her cell phone. “Hi, honey,” she said in a voice with a southern accent—Alabama, maybe—“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m not from around here. I’m afraid this app has me walking in circles. Can you help?”

“I’ll try,” said Sparrow.

“Thank you so much.”

The phone was small and cheap looking. It made Sparrow feel sorry for her. She smiled politely, reached through the window and took it. When she looked down at the screen, though, what she saw took her breath. It was her own text exchange with Chase, the ellipses blinking, waiting for her reply.

She looked back at the woman, whose smile had turned unnatural, mean.

Sparrow gasped and dropped the phone. She grabbed for the gear shift, but the woman lunged through the open window and turned the key, killing the engine.

Sparrow tried to push her away. “Get off of me!”

The woman was stronger. She clamped both hands on Sparrow’s shoulders, dug her nails into her skin. Sparrow slapped at her, almost managing to reach the ignition, but then a blur moved outside the passenger window. A man, big and dressed in black, a ballcap pulled low, was opening the door.

He crawled inside, slapped his hand over Sparrow’s mouth and shoved her back into the seat. She thrashed, screamed into his palm. He pressed against her harder, splitting her lip against her teeth. She tasted blood.

The woman had stepped back and was rummaging through her purse. She pulled out a capped syringe as Sparrow’s eyes went wide with terror. She twisted with all her strength and was able to elbow the man in the ribs, nearly slipping from his grip. Before she could, he grabbed her again, harder this time, and she felt a sharp sting in her arm, burning pressure beneath her skin.

“Shhh,” said the woman. She reached across Sparrow and turned off the headlights. “It won’t take long, honey.”

Sparrow tried to keep fighting, but she was exhausted. Soon her limbs felt too heavy to move, as if every cell in her body had turned to lead. A rising warmth flooded her chest. Her vision blurred, tilted like she was falling sideways.

She heard her father’s voice. “Kick, baby, kick.”

She couldn’t. She was drowning. This time there was nobody to save her.