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Going Home (First Flight)
Ash stared at the fresh red wound on her right arm. It was a thin red line, about three or four inches long. She held her left hand up to her arm and hovered over the wound: it was just small enough that she could cover it with her palm. Her hand was shaking as she held it over her arm. Both of her hands were shaking. She balled her hands into fists, forcing them down on her lap.
She couldn’t stop staring at the cut.
The violent mark on her skin looked almost delicate.
If she stared at it just long enough for her eyes to lose focus, her vision would blur and the wound would look almost like a stray red thread from her shirt had just clung to her skin. But when she blinked and her vision would focus again, the red thread would be gone, and in its place would be an angry red line---a knife cut from her best friend.
“It was an accident,” she said.
Hunter pretended not to hear. The young driver kept his eyes forward on the road and hi
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