As Dead as It Gets by Katie Alender

ground.
    I glanced up. The clouds were at rest in the sky overhead. The rain came down in soft sheets instead of spirals.
    So I started back for the road on my shaky legs. Once I got some momentum, I upgraded to a slow jog, navigating the slick terrain as fast as I dared.
    My car was just a short walk up the sloping hill. I stumbled the few remaining feet to the grass and fell to my knees, somehow feeling safe now that I was off the soil. But even though I knew the attack was over, I was too frightened to look back out at the field.
    The car was still running, thank God. I got in and checked the clock.
    Five minutes. I’d only been out there for five minutes.
    A racking cough forced its way out of my lungs, and the effort made my throat feel like someone had lit it on fire.
    In the rearview mirror I could see blood mixing with rainwater on my forehead, where something had scraped the skin at my hairline and turned my white hair pink. A red line crossed my throat, and a bright pink semicircle decorated my jaw. I was pretty sure they’d both be revolting purple-and-black bruises before long.
    I couldn’t go home like this.

T HE SOUND OF THE DOORBELL echoing inside the house almost made me dash back to my car. But just as my nerve totally abandoned me, the porch light came on, illuminating me like an actor on a stage. And it was too late.
    Jared stood at the open door, a big confused smile on his face. The edges of his dark hair were still damp from where the rain had crept under the hood of his poncho. His wide brown eyes settled on me.
    Then came the pause I’d been dreading.
    Then: “Alexis?”
    I was too cold to speak, so I stood there dripping all over the welcome mat, pretty sure the blood from my forehead had tinted my entire face pink.
    Jared grabbed me by the arms, and his fingertips squeezed a sore spot on my shoulder, making me flinch. He let go like I’d tried to bite him.
    “What happened?” he asked. “Who did this to you?”
    I opened my mouth to answer, but it felt like there was a wad of cotton blocking my vocal cords.
    “Should I call the police?” Jared asked. “Alexis? Why won’t you answer me? Are you in shock?”
    “No,” I finally managed to say. “I’m sorry.”
    “Sorry? For what?” He looked out into the night as if something might be following me. “Come in—you’re freezing.”
    “I can’t, I’m all wet,” I said.
    He herded me inside, a protective hand on the back of my neck, and led me to the dining room, where he flipped on the light and pulled out a chair. “Sit.”
    A minute later he was back with a washcloth, a roll of bandages, and a bowl of water.
    “Now,” he said, “tell me what happened.”
    I stared at the gleaming surface of the table. “I can’t.”
    But I did let him push back the hood of my sweatshirt and press the warm, wet washcloth against my hairline. “This cut needs stitches,” he said.
    “No.”
    “But it’s going to leave a—”
    “No,” I said again. And then, aware of how utterly childish and ungrateful I sounded, I softened my voice. “Thank you, but it’s fine. It doesn’t matter.”
    He sat back and gave me an incredulous look. Then he went into the kitchen and turned on the faucet. I looked around the room, which was immaculate.
    I hadn’t known anyone could be as obsessively neat as my father and I, until I came to the Elkins house, which hardly even looked like anyone was living in it. At worst, you’d spy a clean dish or two in the drying rack, not yet put away. Pretty impressive for a single dad and a teenage son. Especially since Jared didn’t have the look of a neat freak. He was slightly scruffy; his unkempt dark eyebrows made him look incredibly serious even when he was joking. (To be honest, sometimes it was hard to tell when he was joking.)
    Jared came back and went to work on my face. He put a bandage over the cut on my forehead and gently dabbed at my cheek. “Was it a car accident?”
    “No,” I said.
    “No, I