Immortal Souls: Phoenix Always

Five-Day Countdown

On my sixteenth birthday, David and Samantha surprised me with a convertible Smart car, custom designed in red and charcoal. It wasn't a happy surprise. I might have been dead in five days, and then what would they do with this expensive new car? But I couldn't tell them that, so I put on my best "Oh my God, I'm so happy" act and accepted the car. For the last two years, I've been treating it as if it's made of diamonds and worth a million dollars. It's still in immaculate condition.

Or it was.

My knuckles pale with my grip on the steering wheel. Calm down, Phoenix. It's just a fender bender. You don't know what the damage is yet. Breathe.

I force my rigid spine to relax and peel one hand off the wheel. A man's thick, hairy hand raps against my window. His senior ring scrapes the glass. "Are you okay?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I scream. Travis jumps back as I shove the door open. My seatbelt yanks me back to the seat. "Damn it!" I jam the buckle button with my thumb and leap out of the car before the belt completely retracts.

Travis throws his hands in the hair. "It was an accident, Phoenix. I'm sorry."

Oh, I want to hit him so bad, but I only shoot him an icy glare and turn around to inspect the damage.

"I'm really sorry," Travis says again.

"There's a scratch, Travis. A scratch." I thought for sure his big ass "I'm overcompensating" truck would have at least bent the back bumper all to hell. But there's only a scratch. Score one for Smart cars. A quick glance at his front bumper evens the score. "It's not even worth reporting. Unless you have an objection, I'm leaving."

He doesn't answer me. His dull green eyes spin every direction, like he's scared. He bumped into me just as I was about to pull out onto the street from our parallel parking spots, so we aren't blocking traffic. And I doubt anyone called the police. I don't know why he's worried.

I snap my fingers in front of his face. "Travis, are you okay? You're not going to get in trouble or anything. There's only a scratch."

"Yeah, sorry." He rubs the back of his neck, still looking around. "Are you sure you don't want to report it?"

"I'm sure. What happened anyway?" No point in opening an insurance claim on a little scratch. David would probably just laugh at me.

"I thought I saw something," he mutters, scrutinizing a spot across the street.

There's nothing notable there. Just some houses with no one outside. "What did you see?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head. "I guess I got hit harder at practice than I thought."

Mr. Aimes pulls up beside us and leans his balding head out of the window of his 1971 Mercedes R107. It's the exact type of car I first learned how to drive in, in 1972—none of my previous lives before then had offered me the opportunity. It's even the same shade of slate blue. Would be funny if it were the actual car.

"Are you kids all right?"

I hate being called a kid, but he seems genuinely concerned. Damn it. I'm going to have to apologize to him for giving him such a hard time this year. I can't leave that loose end untied.

"It's all good, Mr. Aimes," Travis replies.

He waves and drives off.

I wave back, but I'm not sure if he sees me. "So, what do you think you saw?"

Humans don't just see things that aren't there without the aid of a substance or some kind of health problem. And if he was hit hard enough at practice to hallucinate, he wouldn't be able to drive. Then again, he did just rear end my car.