Lance knew he was running the risk of a speeding ticket, but at the moment, all he cared about was getting as far away from the house—and Chris—as possible, as quickly as possible. Even now, he could still see red, and he gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles gleamed white.

He had no particular destination in mind; he just took a turn here and a turn there, followed one car for a time and then shifted to another. Even with his radio playing at full blast, the words he and Chris had hurled at each other kept ringing in his ears. Every time Chris’s face flashed before him, he put on the gas a little more. At this rate, he could have very well barreled through the entire night.

It was only about nine o’ clock, but already dark enough to pass off for eleven or twelve.

Of course, Lance hadn’t meant for things between him and Chris to get so out of hand. In fact, anyone who knew them personally would have been surprised that they’d had such a serious argument to begin with. While they did bicker on occasion, tonight was like a lit match in a closet full of dynamite. Somewhere deep inside, Lance was well aware that he could have handled the situation better, but Chris could have done so, too. Chris, of all people, should have acted more his age. Lance was just glad to have gotten out of there before any bodily harm could occur.

He had no idea how long he rode the street like this, for he did not watch his clock, and he made no bother with the road signs, either. But something about the latest car in front of him redirected his thoughts. This particular car—a black BMW—kept drifting in and out of the traffic lanes, making a dangerous zigzag.

It would slow down one minute, then speed up the next; more than once, Lance had to put on the brakes to avoid slamming into the rear.

What is this jerk’s problem? Lance narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. The third time he was forced to drastically decelerate, he lost his patience and hit the horn as hard as he could.

Whether the other driver was deaf, stupid, or dead drunk, this precarious driving kept up.

“Oh, come on!” Lance hollered at the top of his voice. “What do you think you’re doing, you crazy—”

The sudden flare of taillights was the last thing he saw before the two cars met with a sickening, heart-stopping crunch. The violent force would have pitched Lance entirely through the windshield had his seatbelt not restrained him.

The last sounds were a harsh screech from behind, followed by another crunch of metal and glass.

Then everything went pitch-black.