Author's Note: Make sure to read everyone's point of view; they're all important to the story. Don't just skip to the Callie parts! :) Please review so I know how I'm doing!
Callie:
The road is racing under our feet, bits of yellow stripes being sucked up and spit out by our car. We're going so fast that I get dizzy when I try to look at anything in particular out the window, so after a while I just give in and lean back in my seat and stare at a point on the horizon. The view never seems to change. Green and yellow signs with exit information come and go, and for each one I find myself calculating how I would get home if I turned back there.
Home. The word stops me in my tracks. No, I don't have a home. The faster I accept it, the better.
Wyatt keeps glancing over at me, clearly worried about how I'm doing. I really like Wyatt. He's been nicer to me than anybody I've met outside the family since I came to live with the Fosters. But I can't like him in quite the way I want to. I know he wants me to explain why I hitched a ride with him, but I just interlace my fingers in my lap and stare out at the horizon. We only have to go a couple hundred miles before we're out of California. And once I'm out, I can tell him. Because once I'm out, I can't ever come back.
18 hours later.
Callie:
The world is completely black. Blackness, and pain. My head is spinning and I have just enough time to turn my head to the side before I vomit up everything in my stomach. My ribs are screaming. I have to lie flat and rest my head back on the floor. The retching has squeezed tears from my eyes and they itch as they trace slowly down the sides of my head. The smell of vomit is overwhelming, but under the putrid stench I can sense something else as well—sharp and musty and metallic. Blood.
My eyes are opening slightly but I still can't see. One of my eyes doesn't seem to be able to open at all. Out of habit I try to prop myself up on my right arm, but it's so excruciating I can't help crying out. I can barely lift it an inch off the ground before I realize something's very wrong. My whole arm is twisted at an awkward angle, and I can't seem to make it move properly. I lower it back down. I'm afraid now. I don't know if I should try to move anything else. So many parts of me hurt, I can't even fathom how badly I must be injured.
I close my eyes. My head is swirling. I try to make sense of this.
My name is Callie Jacobs.
I live with Stef, Lena, Brandon, Jesus, and Mariana Foster, and my little brother, Jude.
I don't know where they are.
I don't know where I am.
I don't know what has happened to me.
The only thing I can come up with is the certainty that I have to get out of here. I try to raise my head again, and but something sticky is holding it to the floor, like glue, like Velcro. Slowly I lift my left arm, which seems to be working. I touch my fingers gingerly to the back of my head. The throbbing in my skull intensifies when I touch it. I can't see my fingers, but by the tacky feeling I know they're coated in dried blood.
I try to take a deep breath, but my ribs protest so hard that all I can manage are several rapid, shallow ones that aren't helping the panic threatening to burst my skin.
Okay, I try to calm myself. Okay, you just need to think. You need to figure out where you are so you can figure out a way out of here.
I close my eyes and listen as hard as I can. There's nothing. Complete silence.
Okay. You need to sit up and look around.
I'm anticipating pain, but it's complete agony. I push up with my left arm, my right arm dragging uselessly on the ground.
My ribs are fire, and my breath comes out in a small squeak. I prop myself up on my left elbow and scan my surroundings
Nothing. The blackness cloaks the room completely.
No, wait. To the left there's a tiny strip of light, but it's gone so quickly that I wonder if it's just a concussion playing tricks on my retinas.
I wait, breathless, staring at the spot it appeared, and after a few seconds it comes on again.
It can only mean one thing.
A door.
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