Chapter 2

Time became a strange, fluid thing. One moment, I was surrounded by the sharp, metallic smell of blood and gasoline. The next, I was floating, watching sunlight dapple through the leaves of the oak tree my car was wrapped around. Days bled into nights. The sun warmed the twisted metal, and the moon cooled it. No one came.

My family didn't notice I was gone. Not for a day, not for a week. I imagine they thought I had made it to the farm, sullen and angry. They probably felt relieved. The problem son was out of sight, out of mind. They could focus all their energy on their real project: Alex.

It was a full ten days later when the outside world finally intruded. A letter arrived at their house. It was from the tech firm, a formal notice stating that my internship offer was rescinded due to my failure to report for work. My father opened it, his brow furrowed in annoyance, not concern.

"He's not even calling us," David muttered to Sarah. "He's so stubborn. He's probably trying to punish us."

That's when I first realized my new state of being. I was standing right there in the living room, a silent, unseen observer. I tried to scream, to tell them I wasn't punishing them, that I was trapped, that I was dead. But no sound came out. My form was translucent, a faint shimmer in the afternoon light. I was a ghost.

My mother picked up her phone and dialed my number. The sound of my phone ringing faintly from the wreckage miles away echoed in my spectral ears. It went to voicemail.

"Ethan Miller, you call us back this instant!" she yelled into the phone, her voice dripping with fury, not fear. "This childish tantrum is over. You have responsibilities. Your brother needs you!"

The anger in her voice sent a jolt of phantom pain through me. It was a cold, sharp agony that mirrored the final moments of my life. I remembered the brake pedal, the useless give beneath my foot. I remembered the steering wheel spinning out of my control. I remembered the final, crushing impact. A flash of memory, so vivid it felt real.

The memory faded, leaving me floating in their pristine, silent house. My eyes drifted to a photograph on the mantle. It was an older one, from before Alex. I was five, sitting on my father' s shoulders at a Fourth of July parade. He was laughing, a real, genuine laugh. My mother was beside him, her hand on my leg, a wide, proud smile on her face. We were happy.

What happened to us? The question hung in the air, a silent testament to my own confusion and sorrow. I tried to reach out, to knock the photo over, to make any kind of sign. My hand passed right through it, the cool glass offering no resistance. The photograph remained, a mocking relic of a buried past.

I drifted away from the mantle, a sense of profound powerlessness washing over me. I found myself drawn back to the crash site. The woods were not kind. I watched as ants discovered the sticky residue of spilled soda on the car floor. I saw a fox, drawn by the scent of decay, sniff around the driver's side door before slinking away. It was a grotesque, humbling sight. My body, my physical self, was just another part of the forest's ecosystem now.

Back in the house, my phone rang again. Not my physical phone in the car, but the sound of it in my mother' s mind. She was leaving another voicemail.

"I can't believe this, Ethan. Coach Thompson called. He was asking why you missed the alumni meet-up. I had to make up some excuse for you. You're embarrassing us," she said, her voice tight with frustration.

Then, her tone softened, but not for me. "Alex, honey, are you feeling okay? You look a little pale. Let me make you some soup."

She hung up without another word for me. Her focus snapped back to Alex, who was playing a video game on the couch, the picture of health. The jarring shift from anger at me to cloying sweetness for him was a familiar, painful rhythm. It was the soundtrack of my life, and apparently, of my death as well.