If only.

Those were soon becoming Lena Hunter's favorite words.

If only I had done this, If only I had done that. They say hindsight is 20/20, but that doesn't help much, does it? Or, as Rosie said, "Hindsight is 50/50 Lena, that way it equals 100, duh." At only seven, she had been frighteningly perceptive.

As I think that, it hits me like a blow. Was. Was, because I am never going to see her again. Was, because she is dead, just like my mom and my dad and Josh, my older brother, who I was supposed to go see graduate before all of this happened.

They were driving down the interstate, Lena with her headphones in, and Rosie yanking them out to try to get Lena to play her stupid animal game with her. "No, Rosie, I'm busy," Lena would say every time, earning a pout and a clear view of Rosie's tongue every time. Lena would try to grab her tongue and pinch it with her chewed off nails, as she couldn't ever be bothered to paint or even file them, much to her cousin Macy's chagrin. Their mom yelled at them to stop arguing, their dad turned around to say something, what, I'll never know, because WHAM.

Lena wished she could have been bothered now, she could have bothered to play Rosie's stupid seven-year-old games, be bothered to listen to Josh and Dad's hours-long discussions on atoms and particles and other science stuff, but no, she woke up in a hospital bed being told how lucky she was to be alive, nobody else had made it. She hadn't talked to anyone since, letting them stew in their worry and aggravation, until a man in a dark suit with a strange, yet interesting accent came in.

"Ms. Hunter, we must talk."

And everything went downhill from there.