I grabbed my mother's hand so hard my knuckles went white.

"Mom, walk me to the exam hall today."

She blinked, then smiled.

"What's gotten into you? Yesterday you said you didn't need—"

"I'm begging you."

My voice was shaking.

Her smile fell. She saw my eyes and whatever was in them made her go still—because no girl shaking like this was shaking over an exam.

She pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. No fever. She nodded anyway. "Alright. Mom will take you."

We reached the familiar intersection before long.

I stood at the edge of the crosswalk, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.

My mother was chattering beside me about something. I didn't catch a single word.

This was the crosswalk.

In my last life, a silver van had come tearing through here and sent me flying three meters.

Fractured right leg. Concussion. Missed the math exam entirely.

I'd spent ten years remembering that plate number. JC-7K362.

There it was.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught the silver van easing up to the left-side intersection, idling at the corner.

The driver wore a baseball cap pulled low, face hidden, but the engine was still running.

He was waiting.

Waiting for me to reach the middle of the road.

"Mom," I said, my voice eerily steady, "record on my phone. Right now—don't stop."

Before she could react, I'd already pressed the phone into her hands, hit record, and pulled her onto the crosswalk with me.

Three steps in, the van's engine screamed and it launched straight at me.

Now.

I spun around, raised the phone at the van, and the flash fired.

The driver threw a hand up instinctively to shield his eyes. The steering wheel jerked. The van grazed the hem of my school skirt and plowed into a fire hydrant on the curb.

Screams erupted all around us.

I stood frozen in place, the voice recorder I'd been gripping slick with sweat.

"Dora!"

My mother screamed and threw her arms around me. The phone clattered to the ground, still recording.

I crouched down, picked it up, and aimed it at the smoking van, capturing the plate number in perfect clarity.

Then I dialed 110.

"Someone just tried to run me over on purpose—I'm a student, it's exam day. Plate number JC-7K362. He's still here."

I hung up. Ten minutes later, a police car arrived.

The driver tried to run. An officer tackled him to the ground before he made it five steps.