Prologe
Wylder was only eighteen on the day she died.
She never thought, when she forgot her keys on the kitchen sink that morning, that a minute or two delay could be the difference between life and death.
*****
Wylder was driving with her friends in an old beat-up car with no air conditioning, arm out the window, baking in the heat of the July sun. Cherry-vanilla flavor in her vape, which her mom would be pissed about if she knew.
In the backseat on the floor was her backpack with an envelope full of cash and checks from friends and family—her high-school graduation gifts. The events of the day had made her and her friends late and she was not likely to make it to the bank, in time to open a new savings account, before they closed for the weekend.
Dean and Chase were bickering over the radio station so loudly that the other drivers flying by could hear them if they had their windows down. Pulling up to the intersection, Wylder had just missed her opportunity to smoothly merge onto the main road. She waited for what seemed like an eternity to her passengers to merge into traffic, but the speed limit on this road was high and it was getting close to quitting time in these parts. Trucks, cars, big-rigs, and even a tractor passed in front of her. From the backseat, Dean said, “For the love of God, Wylder, would you go already? You can make it!”
She had waited weeks to open her account and was determined to get to the bank before 5 p.m. when they would close; she did not want to wait until Monday to open the savings account. With another push from the backseat driver and the bright sun in her eyes, she slammed her foot on the gas pedal and turned onto the main road to town.
That turned out to be the last decision of her life.
