“Guard this with your life,” he says, angling back toward me.

I force my arms through the bag until it’s resting on my back.

“Oh, and I put my sweatshirt in there too just in case you get cold on the way back,” he says. “Let me know if we need to stop, so you can put it on.”

I nod my head, and the big, pink helmet moves with it.

“I love you, Logan Amsel. Forever and a day.” He reaches back and squeezes my leg.

I adjust the backpack, then tighten my arms around his waist. “I love you too, Andrew Amsel.”

There’s a moment, and then suddenly, the purr of the bike’s engine fills the air around us. The sound grows louder and louder as the bike leaves the curb in one swift motion, forcing my body backward. I squeeze my arms tighter around Andrew’s waist.

“Forever and a day,” I whisper, pressing my cheek against his shoulder.

It’s early afternoon. Wednesday. June 10. The sun is shining. There are cotton-ball clouds in the sky, and I can see the open road ahead of us. The warm air is hitting my arms and brushing past my bare shoulders. It feels good against my skin. We take a turn, and I hold on to Andrew tighter and move with his body. I have so much love for the boy I’m holding. I caress the ring on my left hand with my thumb and think about the perfect life we’re going to have together. I’m thinking about our little house in the country, our three, little scraggly children we’re going to raise together and all the places we’re going to go when something happens and the dreams all shatter.

My weight shifts forward, and the bike turns sharply. There’s something big with fur running to the side — maybe a deer. I hold on to Andrew as tightly as I can. Then I see the pole, and I brace myself for the impact.

It feels as if it’s only been a matter of seconds and I’m waking up in a ditch on the side of the road. I’m on my back, and all I can see is blue sky. I tilt my head to the side, and my head aches. There are wildflowers growing up everywhere all around me. And there’s a smell of burnt rubber in the air. It gets stuck in my throat and makes me cough. I swallow hard and try to take shallower breaths.

“Andrew,” I whisper.

I’m terrified. I want to find him, but I don’t want to say his name loud enough and he not answer me back.

“Andrew,” I whisper again.

I hear the sirens of police or ambulances or something.

I turn on my side and sit up. The backpack is still on my back. I pull its straps across my chest until they’re touching, remembering Andrew’s warning. And then my head starts spinning. I force my eyes closed for a second. And when I open them, I notice that there’s a gash on my leg. It’s bleeding, but it doesn’t look too bad. I look toward the highway. The sirens are getting closer.

“Andrew,” I say a little louder.

I unsnap my helmet and pull it off. It falls to the ground, and I quickly push up onto my feet. But suddenly, my head spins out of control and just as quickly, the earth is pulling me back down again. I fight it, though, and manage to get back to my feet. And in the next moment, my eyes frantically go to searching the tall weeds around me.

“Andrew,” I yell this time.

I spot him several yards away. He’s on his back. He’s not moving. He’s not moving! I panic and lose the moments. Somehow, the next thing I remember is shaking Andrew’s shoulders and calling out his name, while someone else is pulling me off of him. I hold onto Andrew’s shirt as tightly as I can. I don’t want to let him go.

“Please,” I scream. “No.”

There are more of them now, pulling on me. I try to fight them off, but I lose.

I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake up on a stretcher in an ambulance, and the first thing I notice is that the backpack is gone. Where did it go? I take a deep breath and exhale every piece of joy in my soul. And immediately, the tears start streaming down my cheeks. And I cry, and I cry, until I just stop. I just stop crying.

“What is your name?” I hear the man beside me ask.

It’s not the first time he has asked me, but it is the first time I have actually heard it as a question.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks again.

My eyes lift and I notice the bright shade of blue in the man’s eyes. Then, my gaze falls onto a silver pin the man is wearing on his shirt. I focus on it. It’s shiny. So shiny. I watch the man take the pin from near his collar and put it into my bloody hand. There’s so much blood. I don’t even know if it’s all mine.

“Your name,” he says again.

“Mrs. Amsel,” I whisper, still staring at the pin, now in my hand.

The warm liquid floods my eyes again, and I quickly force my eyelids shut. I caress the metal pin’s edges with my fingers inside the palm of my hand. I’m starting to feel numb. My whole body is starting to feel numb. I press one of the pin’s edges into my hand until I feel a sharp pain. Then, I take a deep breath and slowly force the air back through my lips.

My alarm is blaring some song from the top hits station on the radio. It’s so loud, it sounds like it’s right next to me. I lift my head and notice I’m still on the couch. Then immediately, I feel the sting of a night full of my lingering memories.

I force myself to sit up. The light is on above me, and the blinds are wide open, but on the other side of the patio doors, it’s dark. I take a second to rub my eyes before I slowly push myself up and stagger toward the song playing in my bedroom. When I get close enough, I throw my hand on top of the alarm, and instantly, the room grows silent again. I glance at the clock. There’s a big, bright green six on it. The little, mesmerizing glow in the dark room captures my full attention for a few seconds, until I snap out of it and fall onto the edge of my bed. Moments pass, and I just sit there and stare at the beige wall in front of me, trying to convince myself that someday the nightmare won’t haunt me. And then, suddenly, I remember Jorgen.

I don’t even bother changing out of the clothes I wore yesterday — the same clothes I fell asleep in. I charge to my door, push past it and plant my feet on Jorgen’s welcome mat.

I take a second to rally my courage. Then, I knock three times on the hard wood. A few moments disappear before I hear rustling on the other side. And all of a sudden, the knob turns and the door opens. He’s still wearing his jeans from yesterday, but his shirt is gone. I notice his abs and the muscles in his chest right before I charge into his apartment.

“What time is it?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “We’re talking about this.”

I hear him suck in a breath.

“Okay,” he concedes softly, turning away.

I watch him close the door and take a seat on one of his barstools, but I don’t sit down. I just stand.

“Jorgen.”

I wait until his eyes meet mine. And when they do, I continue.

“I was married. I was eighteen. It was right after graduation.”

I stop and try to gather some more courage to say the words that I’ve needed to say for a long time now.

“We had known each other since we were kids,” I go on. “He asked, and I said yes. I had dreamed about it since I was nine. I didn’t even have to think about it. Our parents didn’t know — until they found the marriage license after…”

Jorgen’s voice stops me.

“Ada, why don’t you go by your first name?”

I think my eyebrows instinctively collide. He sounds so calm now — as if he’s not mad anymore. But I don’t understand his question or maybe I just don’t understand why he’s asking it.

There’s dead silence for a long, agonizing minute. Then, I look into his eyes.

“I couldn’t…,” I start. “The last thing he — Andrew, my husband — said to me was my name and the words: I love you and forever. I couldn’t hear my name and not think of those words anymore.”