“Mitch!”

I screamed, but I was thrown sideways as the truck lurched, careening violently toward the mountain wall.
  
 I scrambled in my seat, no longer breathing, but feeling my pulse pounding in my head. The truck seemed to be moving in slow motion, and I knew where it was going—right into the mountainside. I was going to die.
  
The lights of the dash were extinguished and the throbbing of my heart ceased as I braced myself for impact. For death.

As quickly as all of this happened, I felt—at some point—a pair of arms encircling my waist. They seemed to be grabbing me from behind. But I struggled violently against them, trying to move in my seat—to move away from the mountain wall about to crush me. Or had it killed me already?

I couldn’t breathe.

I still couldn’t hear.

Was I upright?

Was I lying down?

I couldn’t tell.

Thick darkness surrounded me, and I couldn’t move.

Was I dead?

I tried to reach out to my left, to Mitch.

Nothing.

Had I even moved my arm?

Arms. I could still feel arms—two arms around my waist. Someone was holding
me . . .