We pile out. I don’t wait for them, charging forward, around the crop of bushes, my running shoes sinking into the wet ground.
If Bart’s numbers are accurate, then Jonah is the one out of ten.
I don’t know when exactly I start to run, but I’m moving fast now, my blood rushing in my ears as I race toward the wreckage, stumbling over the uneven ground and around the bits of yellow metal debris, doing my best not to focus on how one of Betty’s wings is jutting into the air at an odd angle, and how the rest of her is riddled with dents and scratches. A stretch of torn land, grass, and muddy streaks lead me in.
Sitting on the ground some distance away, with his back pressed against a crop of rocks, is Jonah, rivulets of blood snaking down over the bridge of his nose, his left eye, and his beard, like some victim in a horror film.
“Oh my God.” I dive down to kneel next to him, shifting strands of his long, straggly hair back to reveal the source of the blood, a gash across his forehead.
“Am I still pretty?” he murmurs dryly.
I let out a shaky laugh. Amid my struggle to catch my breath, I’m hit with an overwhelming wave of relief that not only is Jonah alive, but his sarcastic tongue seems to be flapping just fine.
“We need to get something on that.” I look around, only to remember that we’re in a field. “Here. Use this.” I strip off my sweater and hold it against the wound.
“Thanks.” He sighs, reaching up to press his bloodied hand over mine to clamp my sweater in place.
Bart is the first to reach us.
“Nothing wrong with her, hey, Bart?” Jonah mutters.
“But . . . I . . .” Bart sputters.
A bout of coughing announces my dad’s approach. “Jesus Christ.” He presses his hand against his mouth, trying to stifle it. “What happened?”
“There was a strange sound and then the engine warning light came on. And then I smelled oil burning, so I shut ’er down,” Jonah explains. “Everything was fine coming in until I hit that patch of rock. I couldn’t see it until the last minute. Tried to avoid it, but I couldn’t. Fuck, I’m sorry—”
“Are you okay?” my dad interrupts abruptly, as if he doesn’t want to hear Jonah’s apologies.
Jonah shifts his body and winces. “Pretty sure my shoulder popped out for a second while I was trying to shimmy my way out, but yeah, I think I’m good.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No.”
“Let me see.”
I pull my hand away and stand to get out of the way. My dad crouches next to Jonah. He peels away my bloodstained sweater and I cringe at the sight.
“It’s shallow and pretty clean. Probably got grazed by a piece of metal. I’d say you’re in for at least ten stitches.”
One eye—the one not covered in blood—looks up to regard me. “Was that exciting or what, Barbie?”
I shake my head in exasperation at him.
“That girl ran like I’ve never seen anyone run before,” my dad murmurs.
“She wanted to make sure the ground finished me off.”
I wanted to make sure you’re okay. Because I was worried. Because I care.
“No. I figured you’d jump at the chance to ruin my favorite sweater,” I say instead.
“Hmmm.” Jonah’s lips part in a bloody smile as he presses the soft, pink cloth against his forehead again. “At least one good thing came out of this, then.”
Sirens sound in the far distance.
Jonah groans. “Who called them? The hell if I’m being carried out of here.” He uses my dad as leverage to get to his feet, wincing in pain, his movements slow and graceless. Even injured, though, he’s a looming presence. He stops to take in Betty’s mangled frame. “Damn. So what is she? Number nine?”