James Turnbow

She scrambles to find it, but it's lost in the space by her side of the middle console.

A cheer sweeps along the beach, Paz's rousing words, and their accompanying pulse driving everyone into action.

Someone screamed!

She slams a fist against the dashboard and points out the windshield.

Phones are discarded, having served their purpose, as everyone rushes into the water to meet the sharks.

I go faster.

Once again, the pulse tries to take control of me, but I'm too preoccupied with my own breed of anger.

The cop is yelling something over his loudspeaker, but I don't care.

I take turn after turn, navigating my way through suburban peace, headed for what I pray isn't my own worst nightmare.

I shout, throwing my phone down in frustration as people jostle me on their way into the water.

When we reach our house, I jump out and sprint for the house while Fran gets out, ditching the pizza boxes in the grass and holds her hands up as she shouts for the cop to listen as the cruiser screeches to a halt at the curb.

Realizing what's happening, I start forward, fist clenched, ready to take my revenge.

The water is up to my knees when I stop, a memory distracting me from my task.

It was before the vacation.

I was messing with that waterproof GoPro when I got frustrated and threw it down, breaking it.

I hear the officer shouting, but I don't care.

I'm inside the house and racing to the kitchen.

The expression on Nikki's face when she peeked out of the closet looms large in my mind.

Then I'm pulling open the basement door and sprinting dangerously fast down the stairs.

I ask myself, seeing how little I've changed since then.