Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
With my focus more on making sure I punch in the correct flight number than where I’m going, I don’t spot the deer and her fawn on the road until it’s too late to brake. I still do, but since I’ll still collide into them at a speed that would kill them, I yank on the steering wheel. A pop sounds from my back tire a second before the car I bought after I was awarded the position of surgeon at Ravenshoe Private Hospital, and I sail over the picturesque landscape instead of around it.
There’s no avoiding the collision I must inevitably face, so instead of bracing for impact, I send a silent prayer to God to make the suffering of my parents more bearable before I close my eyes and surrender to the peace engulfing me even faster than panic.
As the words of “Surrender Me” by Rise Up filter through my ears, the passenger side of my Audi impacts with the trunk of a massive pine tree. The jerking movement it rockets through my body forces my torso forward at a rate too fast for my seat belt to harness. I’m flung into the steering wheel a second before the collision twists my car around, so I travel the remaining three hundred feet backward.
Not knowing what’s coming makes the impact of my ribs against the steering wheel less noticeable, but nothing can take away from the blinding pain that radiates through me when the back half of my car is crumbled by a second tree trunk.
It shoves me so far forward, within seconds, I’m trapped between the steering wheel, an airbag, and my seat. Then, not long after that, I black out due to excessive pain.
Chapter Two
By the time I come to, blood is coating my throat, my body is numb from the blistering cold temperatures both inside and outside my mangled car, and I’m terrified the cause of death on my death certificate will be cited as a mauling by a bear instead of a traffic accident.
I can’t move my neck. Not only am I fearful of spinal damage, but I’m also terrified by the sound of snapping twigs in the distance. It doesn’t take a genius to realize I’m not alone in this dense, dark forest, and the knowledge is terrifying.
The silent scream bubbling in my chest escapes my mouth when a dusting of hairs skim my forearm. They’re thick and untamed, similar to a bear’s fur prickling when it detects the distinct aroma of blood I’m striving to ignore.
Blood is a part of my life, but that doesn’t mean I’m a fan of either its scent or prognosis.
“Please don’t eat me. I’m too overcooked,” I mumble through the wooziness, making my words drowsy and slow. “You want a ripe, young victim to devour. Someone like Rosha. I’m not her.” Ask my fiancé.
My last three words are only for me. I’m too busy choking through the bile racing up my throat to articulate them out loud, but they’re also embarrassing to admit.
No one wants to acknowledge they’re someone’s second choice.
“Please don’t eat me,” I repeat on a sob once I’ve cleared away the gunk unwillingly vacating my stomach by angling my head to the side.
I’ve made a mess of my shirt, but from the strands of almost black hair stuck in the cracked windscreen, a little bit of vomit on my favorite blouse is the least of my problems.
Although the pain the brief movement of my head zaps down my spine has me frantic, some good comes from it. A bear isn’t approaching me. It’s a man with big, calloused hands, matted hair that hangs to his waist, and enough facial hair I am confident I’m not the first person to mistake him for a wild animal.
“Help,” I beg when he steps away from the wreckage instead of racing toward it like most people do when they stumble onto an accident.
Even when I’m not at work, I am forever on the clock. I’ve delivered babies on the side of freeways, stuck my finger into the gunshot wound of a victim to pinch an artery until first responders could arrive, and I’ve handled more than my share of traffic accidents.
Even if you don’t have a medical degree, you don’t leave someone stranded when they’re in trouble. You’re meant to help.
“Please,” I cry when he continues retreating. “I’m stuck. I can’t get out.” My breathing turns even more irregular when my last confession sets off alarm bells in my head. “I also think I smell gas.”
My chin quivers in sync with the brutal shake my confession causes my body. The last time I announced I could smell gas, the car a young woman was trapped in exploded. The blast was so brutal, it sent the man I was helping and me flying through the air. I don’t know what injuries he endured from the blast, but I was handed a condition that almost ended my medical career before it had truly begun.