The first time the voice in his head spoke, Matt was driving sixty-five miles an hour down Interstate 5.
The road felt non-existent beneath the Wrangler's new suspension, wheels rolling like water over worn asphalt roads. He beat his hands against the steering wheel shamelessly to the sounds of Dolly Parton, window rolled down, wind chill raking through his hair. The engine groaned along to the music, the beast rumbling beneath his heels.
God, if his father saw him now. This kinda music's for cuckholds and sissy-fucks, he would say. Then he'd change the radio to Willie Nelson or Johnny Cash and nod his head with a cigarette between his paper-thin lips—creased to jowls from all the decades of leering at the world like the honest to God piece of shit he was. That's the stuff, he'd say. That's the stuff.
That wasn't the stuff. Fuck your stuff, Dad.
Thank Christ Matt had learned at a young age what a misogynistic, selfish old bag looked like before he became one himself. Any song sung by a woman was for cuckholds. Any man who enjoyed it was a sissy-fuck. And what in God's name was a sissy-fuck anyway?
Matt pressed his foot to the gas and screamed out into gushing, billowing world he left behind. Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene.
His old man wasn't here to lay out the old brittle bones of his over-baked masculinity. There was just Matt and Dolly and the open road. This was the only place he felt like himself lately. The only place where things made sense. The only time Matt ever seemed to feel comfortable anymore was when he was riding the passing lane, leavin' every shitty thought behind him at sixty-five miles an hour.
"I'm beggin' of ya', please don't take my man."
Matt swerved toward the median to the sound of a voice that wasn't his own. He snapped his head to the empty passenger seat, glanced in the rearview mirror to the back of the Wrangler's empty cabin. And when he found no one, Matt decided it must've been the radio—maybe the wind vortexing the sound of Dolly's voice. He turned the dial down and flexed his fingers around the steering wheel, shaken at the knees to lose control like that. Maybe it was for the best that he failed the entrance exam. A cop who couldn't drive a car along a damn near empty interstate wasn't fit for the badge.
Fit for the badge. That was what his dad had said.
Guess you're just not fit for the badge.
Matt reached to turn the volume back up.
"You may wanna pump the brakes pal. Figuratively and literally."
This time when Matt looked to his right, a man sat in the passenger seat. He wore the heavy winter-weather gear of an army soldier, face dark with gritty soot.
"Eyes on the road sweetheart," he said, turning his gaze to the horizon. "You're about to have yourself a day."
Matt hesitated—too long before turning his eyes back to the road.
A loud pop burst through the open windows and Matt veered to the right to evade the tarnished tire that came flying toward him. A wheel had blown from the tiny red sedan, several yards ahead and the car was weaving for control. It crossed lanes in an effort to reach the shoulder, then—
Matt flinched. A pickup truck had been trying to pass from the right. Couldn't slow down in time. It clipped the edge of the sedan, threw the car off balance. It twisted to the side, went tumbling beneath an overpass. A chunk of metal came slewing across the pavement and Matt slammed on his brakes, new tires burning against the earth. His seatbelt dug into his chest and the Wrangle reared, throwing him back against his headrest. Smoke cloaked his path to the sedan like a blanket of fog, probably from the burn of his own tires. Matt put the Wrangler in park, his heart slamming against his throat. He shoved his hand into his jean pocket and felt around for his phone.
"No time for that, pal. Get out."
Matt turned to the man in the passenger seat—but all that sat in it were the organic energy drink cans he kept piled up. The man in army gear was gone. Through the windshield of his Jeep, the haze had started to clear. The vehicle had rolled, resting on its chawed roof. The wheels on the sedan spun, smoke curling from the engine.
Again, the voice found him—slow and cool, like a haunting breeze. "Open the door, boy. Get out. You know what to do."
Matt took another glance around, but the Wrangler was empty. Who are you? He shoved the door open and stepped out into the stink of burning rubber. Several cars had already stopped and a man in a suit was pacing the distant wreckage, a phone to his ear. Who's talking? Who are you?
"Consider me your subconscious," the voice said. "Hurry up. There's a child in that car."
"How do you know?" Matt whispered to no one. The engine roared, smoke spitting out in furious scuds.
"I hear it," replied the voice. "Break the windows. Get inside."
Matt took a step forward, but the flames grew dark. Smoke crawled down his throat, peppering the walls with poison. Were they still stepping on the gas? Was the pedal stuck?
He coughed the smoke into his arm. "I can't—"
"You can," the voice said.
Matt took another step forward, but every nerve and muscle in his body reared like a spooked stallion. "I can't—it's gonna go up in flames."
A breath crashed against his ear—or maybe it came from his head. It was deep and gruff, but blithe. A voice born and bred from gallows humor. "Alright, princess. Take a seat. We don't have time for this."
Matt's legs went numb. His eyes stung from the smoke and dizzying vertigo burrowed deep into his skull. He slipped away into warmth and darkness, dulled to the world and everything in it.
It was like he'd fallen asleep, passed out cold, right there on the interstate. Sounds and feelings passed him, indistinct as a dream. He reached out to reality, but only his fingertips grazed, and he couldn't tell what it was he touched. Something hard? Something soft? Did it hurt? Voices—there were voices. A shatter, a horn. Whining brakes and the huff of a semi brought to a grinding lull. God, what an officer he woulda made. A man who couldn't act when action was needed. A pansy, who choked on smoke and fell out of his skin, inches from a dyin' kid.
Dad was right. He wasn't fit for the badge. He wasn't made for this.
Phantom water washed from his ears—a loud, emphatic burst jostled his heart and every nerve in his body. When Matt opened his eyes, a gummy, toothless smile beamed back at him. He held a child in his arms, the infant reaching to him with chubby, fat-folded arms. A woman laid sprawled on the road beside him, several witnesses crowding around her, looking at Matt like he'd just been beamed out of a goddamn alien spaceship.
"Bud?" a man in a trucker cap as asking, as if he'd been trying for Matt's attention for some time. "Bud, you okay? You need help? Someone come take the kid!"
"What?" Matt murmured. Sirens wailed in the distance, a soft crackle spitting from the fiery engine of the sedan. The baby squeezed at his thumb. "What happened?"
The man looked at him strangely, fixing the cap on his sweaty head. He had blood on his wrist—blood from the woman on the ground. "You don't remember? Shit, you hurt yourself while you were in there?"
Hurt. Was he hurt? Matt lifted his left hand—the only thing he could feel. It pulsed. Pulsed hard. His knuckles were stiff, blood dripping between the relaxed gaps. Shards stuck through the webs of his fingers. His knuckles bloomed red, skin peeled back from the middle bone. So much blood. He hadn't seen this much blood since the day he died.
He raised his head to the sedan, more distant than he remembered. The driver window was shattered down to the frame, flames crawling out of the metal. Flames spewing smoke up into the overpass. Flames eating away the empty car seat inside.
"You really don't remember pullin' them out?" The trucker asked. "You beat that window in like it was nothin'. Bud, you damn well just saved that lady's life. The kid too."
Her life? The woman stirred on the hard ground, sobbing out in agony. The road felt soft beneath his feet—the pain in his fist distant, but nagging. The sirens grew closer, but the roar of the flames were greater and Matt couldn't take his eyes from them. I didn't do anything, he wanted to say. The flames taunted his silence, exploding the engine compartment. Their fiery fingers reached so high, they nearly licked the bottom of the overpass.
Matt looked down to the wide blue eyes of the child in his arms.
"Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene," the voice in his head sang on. "Please don't take him just because you can."