“Quick, take the exit! Go from 94,” Sarah blurted out from the passenger seat.

“What? Why? We’re already on 35, that’ll only take longer,” I respond as I continue straight ahead. “Trust me Sarah, I’ve been living here forever. 35 is much shorter.” She doesn’t respond other than turning her head to look out the window. It’s the first of August and the humidity is a killer. The trees stand perfectly still underneath the heat. The sun peaks in between the clouds. It felt like the calm before a storm and her expression mimics the sky’s. Sarah had seemed upset for the last few days, but I can’t tell why. Maybe she just missed the east.

I drive for about a mile before braking, “What? Construction on the bridge?”
“Told you to take the 94.”
“We’ll still make it,” I insist while glancing at the clock that reads six o’two pm. She was

right and I feel guilty and kind of like an idiot. We have no choice but to wait through traffic.
I read the clock, six o’three. Being held back in traffic gets me thinking too much. I merge into the right lane. How am I going to pay next month’s rent? We’re approaching the bridge. What if I don’t get the job? I start tapping my hand. What if she leaves me? The clock

flashes, six o’four. The nervousness caught up with me, as my leg begins to shudder.
“Sean, you’re doing it again.” Sarah speaks softly. I stop. “It’s gonna be fine Sean.” “It’s just … the rent, the job, I …”
“You’ll get the job, Sean, I know you will.”
“It’s not just that, everything’s just happening all of a sudden. It was like just yesterday

I was finishing college. Then I meet you, and I’m living in my own apartment, and now I’m getting a real job.”

“Yea,” she answers in a whisper.
“It’s so exciting, but I just wish it could all slow down a bit. You know?”
We’re half way on the bridge.
Six o’five.
“You’re right, Sean. Things are going kind of fast. And I’ve been thinking. Maybe,” she

pauses as my leg begins to shudder again. “Maybe it’d be best if I moved back in with my family for a while.”

“No.” One short, quick, little word is all I say as time freezes. I hear a bang. A car slams us. Brake lights flash. The foundation gives. The dominoes fall. We collapse. The cars moving, but my foot’s on the brake. There’s a splash.

All I see is the dust. The car’s against the fence. Everything is a blur and all I can hear is that one word ringing in my head, “no”.

The windshield has cracked and the water begins to leak into the car. My leg is still frozen on the break but the car still felt like it was moving. The cold air is invaded by the warmth of the water. Death pulls down on my legs and crawls up my body. I finally realize what’s happening. The bridge collapsed.

I unclick my seatbelt. Removing my foot from the break, I frantically look around. The back is crushed. I try rolling down the window. Idiot. Why did I think that would work? I’ll smash it open. I take deep breaths then elbow the window as hard as I can. Nothing. I try again. And again. And again. A small crack appears. It’s working. One more time Sean. Just once more. The glass shatters as more water rushes in through the window dousing my body.

I need to climb out but the water is so violent. It’s like swimming against the tides of an ocean. I need to pull myself through. Both hands on the frame of the window, I squeeze through the small opening.

I climb out of the water up the slant of the road. I welcome the light, the air, the wind on my skin, but not the sound of sirens. While I was in the water others sat beneath rubble. People trapped in cars, others calling for help. I wasn’t the only one.

I wasn’t … the only one … the only one in the car. I look behind me. She’s not there. “Sarah,” I whisper to myself, and then yell, “Sarah. Sarah!”

I go back to the car and to the window on the right. I peer through the glass. She appears unconscious, but the water’s only to her chest. I bang on the glass, hoping for something, anything. A movement. A reaction. I go over to the windshield and ram myself into it. There’s more water than there was before. I try kicking with my legs. The water’s to her chin. I smash again. She isn’t moving. Another time. Water’s covering her mouth. Again. Her hair’s floating on the surface. Again. It’s up to her nose. Again. It breaks and I fall through.

I take a breath of the little air there is in here. I unclick the seat belt. It’s tangled with her arm. Pull it out. Get out. Her arm’s finally loose. The car is nearly submerged and I take my last breath before pulling her through the windshield. The car begins to roll down the slant of road and down into the river. Her leg, it’s stuck against the crushed edge of the car. All I can do is pull until we’re both out of the car. I hold her as I swim up. The surface, it’s so close,

but I can’t hold my breath. Keep swimming. My legs can barely keep moving. I feel myself stop. Am I falling? I need to push through. The surface breaks.

I take an enormous breath of air. She doesn’t.

I put Sarah’s arm over me and swim back towards the side we had come from. By the time we get to the river bank the current pushes us nearly underneath the second bridge. There were rocks and some small trees by the river bank. I place Sarah down where the river meets, while I climb out from the water. I grab her from underneath her arms and drag her out from the river and onto the rocks.

She’s cold. Her skin is pale. I tilt back her head. My hands are trembling. This is just how I learned in high school. The breaths. I pinch her nose with my fingers I place my mouth over hers and give two breaths. How many compressions? Was it thirty? No, one hundred? I just have to start. I put my hands on top of her chest. One hundred per minute. I take a deep breath. I start to push down rhythmically on her chest. Is that deep enough? I have to push harder. I give her two more breaths. “Don’t you die on me Sarah,” I whisper. I start compressions again. Nothing’s happening. “Stay with me, Sarah.” My eyes water. My vision blurs. “Don’t you die on me. Don’t you die on me, Sarah!” I keep pushing harder and harder. Faster and faster. I give two more breaths. The sirens fade. “Stay with me.” The cars are silent. “You can’t die yet. You can’t leave me now, Sarah.”

She chokes. I turn her head to the side and a little water comes out. She begins coughing hard until her throat is clear and starts breathing heavily. Her eyes open and I see the small hazel light shine with them. I pull her up to a sitting position. All I can think to do is hold her in my arms yet she doesn’t speak a word.

I didn’t notice the cut on my arm or the blood coming from my forehead until now. There’s a cut on Sarah’s face and her leg’s bleeding. She’s shivering and today I had no jacket to keep her warm. “We have to find help,” I speak, “There’s bound to be an ambulance closer to the bridge. Let me help you up.”

“I can’t feel my leg.” I figure it’s from her leg getting squeezed in the car.

“Just try leaning on me.” We don’t take three steps before she trips. I catch her from falling and I use whatever is left of my strength to pick her up. I walk up a tiny slope until we reach a small road that follows the side of the river. There’s some squad cars and an ambulance just down the road. I start towards their direction. Sarah is shivering intensely in my arms. I keep moving until an officer tries to stop and talk to me. “Get her some help,” I say

as I walk passed him and continue toward the ambulance. “I need help! Get her a blanket or something!”

A paramedic approaches me and helps me place her on the back of the ambulance while I begin to explain to her what had happened. She immediately places some blankets around Sarah and then gives another to me. She takes a look at our injuries and does anything she can to help.

A police officer swings by to ask some questions. Sarah didn’t speak much after I pulled her out of the water other than nodding occasionally or giving a short, silent reply. Neither did she ask me a single question about what had happened. From what we’ve been told it seems that Sarah and I are among a few of the first people to come out from the wreckage.

From where I’m sitting I see smoke, cars piled next to each other, large fragments of road, a school bus on its side. The wind has slowed down, but the humidity is distressing. How long has it been? I check my watch only to see that it reads six o’seven while the second hand ticks but doesn’t move. I remember my grandfather telling me to keep it out of the water. The paramedic tells me that it’s six eighteen and all I can remember is seeing the clock flash six o’five before the bridge fell.

I glance over at Sarah. Her once long brown hair has curled up like it would when she gets out of the shower. Her face is pale like it would be when I make her warm soup while she’s sick in bed. She carries an expressionless face. A face that almost reminds me of the one I see when she’s lost in a good book. The faces look so similar but they’re still so different in a way that I can’t quite understand. The one I see now has that same lost look in her eyes. Maybe a midwest life wasn’t meant for someone like her. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Whether I make next week’s rent. If I get the job or not. It doesn’t matter. I’d move to the east with her if that’s what it meant to keep her around, because right now I just know that she’s alive. I know she’s still here.

Somewhere Between Grey and White

By: Malik Nusseibeh

Eggshell walls, baby powder floor, and there I am sitting on the cream colored exam table of a ghostwhite doctor’s office wearing a maroon shirt with beige pants and sneakers that are so scuffed up that they’ve lost their color. It’s a tiny eight by twelve room with a small counter underneath a line of cupboards across the wall, a couple of chairs, a scale, and all the other usual things found in a doctor’s office.

There’s a knock on the door and it swings open abruptly. An elderly man walks in with little enthusiasm. He has aging blonde hair and a pair of round spectacles just above his rosy cheeks. The sagging skin from below his chin is practically a part of his neck. He wasn’t very large but was obviously gaining some pounds on his belly. His hands are small and liver spots are beginning to show. His fingers are stubby, bare with no bands. “Hello ­ ah,” he takes a look down at his clipboard, “Alan ­ ah Lockwood. I am Dr. Ollie Possum.” He put his arm out for a handshake.

I accept his greeting and reply, “Nice to meet you.”

When he let go he looked down at his hand, “Ah, right.” He proceeds to wipe it on his snowy lab coat. He takes a good long look at his clipboard and there’s an uncomfortable silence. At one point he begins to make a swallowing sound with his mouth so loud in the reticence of the wan room that I could hear the saliva being tossed around in his arid mouth. He breaks the quiet with a question, “It says here that you’ve been getting lightheaded?” His voice wasn’t rough like most old men; it was gentle. He pronounced the words clearly and without a slur.

“Yes.”
“Could you elaborate?” He looks back down at his clipboard.
Dr. Possum looked comical. Something about him didn’t quite seem real to me as if he

was completely made up. His hair, his glasses, his aged face that looked as if he were one of those old men from the movies. Even his name Ollie Possum? Where does one even come up with such a colorful name? “I’ve just been getting really dizzy and I start to blackout a little.”

He continues looking at his clipboard taking a few notes here and there, “And you fainted? Yes?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t seem to impressed with my response and doesn’t bother looking up. He pauses briefly and then asks, “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”
“Do you drive?”
“No.”
“Use alcohol?”
“No.”
“Smoke?”
“No.” He doesn’t say anything then brings down his clipboard just enough to make

proper eye contact and remains silent. “I don’t smoke,” I reassure. He raises his clipboard back up and the silence resumes.

“Well let’s take a listen to that heart.” Dr. Possum put his stethoscope on his ears and the other end on my chest. He quietly stares into the ceiling. He moves the stethoscope around on my chest and has a dazed look on his face. “How incredibly bizarre.” He pauses, “I can’t seem to find a heart in there.” I didn’t speak I just gave him a raised eyebrow. This man’s insane. How is he a doctor? He looks down at my chest and begins to chuckle in such a way that made me jump. “Haha, what a fool I am! The hearts on the left side!” In that moment I saw him go from a single vibrant shade to a bursting rainbow.

He moves over to the left side of my chest. “There we go, I can hear it loud and clear now.” He goes back to staring at the ceiling and it’s dead quiet again. He put on the same face but this time he seems more intrigued then confused. “How exotic.”

“What is it this ­”

“Shhh,” putting up his hand to silence me. I stare at him blankly. “What a curious little heartbeat you have there.”

“My heartbeat?”

“Why yes, your heartbeat.” His face still looks rather intrigued. “Let’s move on to your blood pressure.” He adjusts the band onto my arm, puts the stethoscope underneath, and begins to pump. My arm is numb and when he releases the pressure I feel the blood run through to my hand. “A bit lower than the usual.” He writes down some numbers and takes off the band. “You said you fainted and that you’ve been feeling lightheaded. Is that right?”

“Yes, we’ve been over this already.”

“I believe so.” I stare at him blankly again waiting for him to continue or follow up with another question. There was an uncomfortable silence again as I waited for him to say something else, “Is there anything else?”

“Anything else?”

“Do you feel anything else? In your limbs? Your chest? Anything.”
“My chest?”
“Yes.”
I can’t really come up with something to say but I’d hate to disappoint him with another

‘no,’ “Well, very rarely I’ll feel chest pain if I eat too fast. But I take it that’s just heartburn?” “Right.”

“That’s it really other than like a heavy heart or something when I’m dragged with emotions, usual stuff.”

“What’s that?” He replies as he’s once again intrigued.

“You know ­ when you get exhilarated or anxious? Your heart gets heavy.” He stares at me blankly as I would at him, “Your chest tightens up?”

“How extraordinary.” His face is in absolute astonishment.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“Not a clue.”
“When you’re getting ready for something big to happen and your hearts about to pop

out of your chest.” He continues to give me a blank stare, “Like when you’re with somebody that makes you feel like the happiest person in the world, it’s like you have a stone in place of your heart and you have to carry the weight.”

He looks absolutely astounded and at the same time baffled, “And this happens often?”

“Well ­ no I guess not. It’s rare but it’s absolutely incredible.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.” He begins taking vigorous notes on his clipboard. “Isn’t this ­ normal?”
“Normal?”
“Don’t emotions come from the heart? Doesn’t love come from the heart? Isn’t that

what they say?”
He chuckles, “That’s what the p​oets say! Feelings don’t come from the heart!” He

continues to laugh.
I’m confused, a bit frightened by him, and honestly, beginning to feel a bit misled. Is he

speaking the truth? Or is he so far at sea he’s never felt a thing his entire life. “Happiness, you’ve never felt it in your heart before?”

“Happiness is just an increase of dopamine and serotonin transmission in the brain. The b​rain.​The heart has nothing to do with it.”

“How have you never felt this before?”
“Listen Aaron ­”
“Alan.”
“Emotions come from the brain.” He points at his head. “You’ve had to have felt this before?”

“I spent nine years in medical school ­”
“People always say love comes from the heart.”
“And the last thirty­eight years as a doctor.”
“Isn’t that why our hearts beat faster?”
“And what I’ve learned is that you can feel however you want whenever you want.”
“I can’t be the only one.”
“Because it’s all inside of your little head. You see? If you want to be happy you can be

happy.”
“Mr. Potato, please.”

“If you want to be sad you can be sad. Put all that teenage angst aside and feel what you want because at the end of the day all your feelings come from your head. You don’t have to waste time feeling sad or upset if you don’t want to. Your heart’s not telling you to do anything. It simply keeps you alive!” There is a silence. A long silence. I can hear the reticence of the room again. His mouth is still moving. He may have well still been talking but I heard nothing but the stillness of the room. “You said you wanted to be an English professor?”

“Excuse me?” I have no memory of such a conversation, at least not with him.

“Shame. You’d make a wonderful teacher.” He looks back at his clipboard and writes down a few more things. I stare blankly into the milky light of the room. “Let’s go find your mum and have a chat with her, yes?”

“Are you saying … I have broken heart?”
“You could call it that, yes.”
There’s another silence but it was unlike any of the others. I’ve been stuck in the

translucent, alabastrine light of the room until it’s suddenly clouded and I’m choking in it. I’m surrounded by it and it’s strangling my throat. It’s dusty and drab like ash. It’s grey.

“Well then how do you fix a broken heart?.” “That depends. Literally or figuratively?”

I sit there a moment and when I look at him he grins and gives me a nod. I return it and I get up off the exam table and walk with him to the waiting room where my mother has been patiently sitting.

As she sees us walking near she gets up and puts an arm around me. “A word Ms. Lockwood?” Dr. Ollie Possum pulls her over to a side and they chat while I sit down where my mother had been waiting.

There’s a man sitting across from me. He looks somewhere in his mid­twenties. He has long dark brown hair with the sides of his head buzzed. It looks as if he shaved this morning but was already growing quite a shadow on his face. His jawline was define. There’s a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. He’s leaning out of his seat with his hands on his head. He looks nervous. Was he waiting for somebody? Or was there bad news awaiting his ears? It almost looks as if he were getting himself together to get up on a stage in front of thousands of people.

He looks up at me and our eyes meet. I stare straight into them and he stares right back into mine. He’s reading my mind, and his eyes, they’re tender, lush and sprouting into the season. Fresh, grassy, and juvenile. Like emeralds. In them I see anguish, and guilt, and despair, as if he were ready to cry. And although it only lasts a moment it, I’m convinced that I’m looking into my own two eyes in a reflection of myself.

“You’re sick.” He whispers as neither a question nor a fact. “Or that’s what they told you. Something’s wrong with you. That something’s not quite right about you.” I don’t reply but neither does he expect me to. “Well that’s just what the doctors say,” he says with a gentle smirk, but it doesn’t last. “That you must be sick or something cause you came to them. Right? And even when you’re perfectly fine they’ll convince you otherwise. So when you go home and wake up the next morning you can feel all better and think that they fixed you when there was never anything wrong.” He pauses but continues to look me in the eyes. I imagine he see’s the same in my eyes that I see in his. “Don’t listen to whatever they’re telling you. You’re sad. That’s ok, because when you see the colors again they’ll only gleam brighter than they did before. Listen to your heart, cause there’ll come a day where it’s empty inside and you’ll be a lost puppy.”

He pauses and I take a second to take in what he’s saying. “But isn’t that just what the poets say?”

A smile broke out on his face again, “Just because it’s what the poets say doesn’t make it any less real than what you’re feeling right now.”

Then I feel it. That feeling in my heart that I couldn’t explain. That feeling of a boulder in my chest. The one that feels like my heart’s going to pop. The one that the doctor said wasn’t right. The one he couldn’t understand. The one he couldn’t feel. And then I realize, I’m not the one with the broken heart, he is.

I try to collect my thoughts to say something but a woman walks into the waiting room, “Michael Borne.” We both immediately look over at her. The man, Michael, looks back at me and as he stands up ready to walk away, he points at me.

“It’s in the heart.” Those were the last words I’d heard from him and I try to get one last glimpse of those eyes. He follows the lady down a hall and I focus on the imagine of him walking away. A blue button up denim t­shirt that was quite tight. Some long black pants folded at the ankle and a pair of those dress shoe like boots that were becoming more common. I wonder what had happened to him. What did the doctor say to him? Was he sick? He had to be, right? He was going to them. So he has to be sick.

I remain in the waiting room while my mother continues talking to Dr. Possum. The set’s of turquoise chairs are mostly empty between the eggshell walls on the baby powder floor of the clinic. There’s about twelve of them, chairs that is. And there I am in a maroon shirt, beige pants, and a pair of sneakers so scuffed up that the laces are no longer white.