She struck the corner of the window. Once. Twice. Three times. At first nothing happened. Then a hairline crack spread like a vein. She screamed, but the storm swallowed the sound. Daniel slammed his fists from inside. The rock came down again. The crack widened. A section finally shattered inward.
Air rushed in like a miracle.
The girl shoved her arm through the opening and grabbed his jacket. Daniel tried to move, but his body felt made of stone. She pulled with everything she had—legs braced, shoulders straining, fierce courage packed inside a thirteen-year-old frame. The current dragged at him. Darkness clawed at his vision.
Then he was moving upward.
He spilled out of the vehicle like a lifeless puppet. The river hurled them several yards before she fought her way toward shore. Her feet searched for ground. Mud. Anything solid. When they finally crawled onto the bank, both of them trembled, coughing, alive.
Daniel collapsed onto his back. The girl slapped his face lightly. “Don’t close your eyes,” she ordered.
He coughed water and air in violent bursts. Tears slipped out—not from fear, but from the humiliation of fragility.
“Thank you…” he rasped.