My head falls forward and my face slams against the ground, and when I open my eyes, I see the blood, pooling under my head. I stare down at the pattern that unmistakably places me in Dad’s office. No bushes, no trees, no Anna. And no garage, no Jeep. I crawl over to the end table next to Dad’s leather chair. Using it for support, I try to push myself to standing, but my knees can’t hold me and I fall sideways, collapsing into the side of the ottoman. I feel it slide out from underneath me, and I try to keep my grip, but it’s useless. I’m back on the floor in a crumpled heap within seconds. The front of my shirt is drenched with blood, and it’s only getting worse. I can feel it trickling down my upper lip, warm and thick, sneaking into my mouth so I taste it too, metallic, disgusting. Using a clean corner of my shirt, I bring my hand to my nose, pinching hard. I sit up again and I let my head fall backward, feeling the edge of the end table dig uncomfortably into the back of my neck.
