The night we met

Chapter 1: Rewind

"Are you almost here, honey?" his mom's voice sounded loud in the quiet of the car and clear even over the rain pattering against the windows.

"Yes I am, Mom. Let the record show that's the third time I've answered that question."

His father snorted. "'Let the record show', really, Clay? You're not in law school yet, buddy."

"Keyword, yet," Clay pointed out, turning the windshield wipers on high. It was starting to really come down. He should've left earlier. He hated driving in the rain and especially at night. "And why do you guys have me on speaker phone? I'm suddenly feeling vulnerable."

"Do you need a hug?" asked his mom.

"I can hear you sipping wine over the phone," said Clay. He knew she could probably tell he was smiling. "Is the hug for me or for you? Be honest. This isn't an intervention."

"This from my own son. Wow. They really do grow up so fast."

The highway was practically a dark blur through the front window. He really should've read the weather report. It didn't even cross his mind in the hurricane he turned into when getting his bag packed. This sucked. He was tired, hungry, and craving some home cooking. College was totally awesome and all but living on a budget was the worst. Three years away from home and he cherished every time he could get away to come back.

Clay could hear dishes banging in the background. "Let's see, you're drinking and I hear World War III happening...I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess Dad's cooking?"

"Hey! I take umbrage at that." Came his father's voice in the background. "Your mother will be cooking all day for Thanksgiving on Thursday, so I'm giving her a little break."

Mrs. Jensen sighed. "It's the little things."

A loud wet smack and hum of appreciation were audible next. "Oh my, God. Can you two please not make out while I'm on the phone? I am a child."

"You're twenty-one," said Mr. Jensen, dryly.

"Of God," said Clay, talking right over his mother's muffled laugh. "I'm a child of God. You interrupted me."

"One semester of philosophy of law and he thinks he's Matlock."

"Who's Matlock?" asked Clay.

"I really just aged myself," muttered Mr. Jensen.

Clay braced himself for one of his dad's faux outraged rants about youths, skinny jeans, and how paperback books were an extinct species. It was a lot. Clay frowned as the cars ahead began to slow and numerous red brake lights became visible in the downpour.

"Great," he groaned, adjusting the phone. "I think I'm about to hit traffic."

"Please be careful, sweetheart," his mother pleaded.

Clay wilted at the worry in her tone and reassured her, "I'll be extra careful, alright. In fact, I'll be home in no time. Tell Justin not to eat all—"

He looked at the navigation screen on the dash and glanced back up at the sound of tires screeching and he was blinded by the oncoming lights flooding the driver's side window.

"Mom, I—" Clay cried out, the words drowned out by the awful, wrenching noise of metal tearing into metal as the oncoming car slammed into the driver's side door.

Glass exploded around him, metal screeched impossibly loud, and there was a sudden burst of pain in the side of his head that sent him into darkness.