Less than one minute remains in the game that will change our lives forever.

I cannot afford to falter.

Heart pounding, legs pumping, I allow the adrenaline coursing through my veins to spur me across the court as my teammates rush to counter our opposition.

“Scarlet!” a fellow Bluejay cries. “Look out!”

A Cardinal from the opposing team lunges to grab the ball and nearly collides with me in the process. Somehow, though—whether it be through dumb luck or extraordinary skill—I manage to avoid the girl’s greedy hands and burst across the court once more.

“Get her!” someone shouts.

“Don’t let her take the shot!” the opposing team’s coach yells.

“Go, Scarlet!” our coach cries. “Take the shot!”

My eyes instinctively scan my surroundings for any potential threat. The situation is desperate, and the stakes are growing higher with each passing second. On one hand, I could pass the ball to someone—maybe Emily, the tallest on our team, or Rachel, undoubtedly the fastest—and hope to God that they’d make the shot. On another, I know that one false move could spell the end of our championship title, and everything that rides along with it.

Our scholarships.

Our futures.

Our potentials for success.

A quick glance at the clock proves that there are only seconds left.

This is it, I think as I draw near the hoop. This is your chance now.

“Now or never,” I whisper.

A moment is all it takes for me to do the unthinkable.

I take the shot.

Gut wrenching, heart racing, I watch the ball soar through the air toward the hoop.

For a moment, it is so quiet someone could have heard a pin dropping. My chest is tight, the auditorium silent.

I think, Is it—

Then the ball whips through the hoop, and it is over in seconds.

The crowd roars.

The timer runs out.

The referee shouts.

My teammates rush me—a crowd of girls and sweat, screams and tears.

In moments, I am being lifted from the ground by my teammates.

It takes only a moment for the reality to hit me.

We’ve just won the 2003 regional championships.

I can hardly believe it.

“Jays! Jays! Jays!” the crowd chants.

“Scarlet! Scarlet!” my teammates scream.

Coach Vasquez rushes across the basketball court, bright teeth on full display, eyes beaming, nearly stumbling before he slides into place beside us. “Scarlet!” he cries. “You did it! You did it!”

“I did it,” I say, breathless as I reach out to take hold of Vasquez’s hand. “I won the championship game.”

The roar of the crowd continues to assault me as the reality of the situation sinks in.

With this win, I will undoubtedly be scouted by the top colleges in the state.

I almost cannot believe it. So consumed am I by happiness, by adrenaline, that I can barely make sense of what had happened, of what will soon occur.

Shortly thereafter, a thought occurs to me as my eyes instinctively settle upon the stands.

My mother should have been here to see my winning play.

If only she hadn’t have been called in to the hospital, I think.

A defeated sigh escapes me, but thankfully, the frown that crosses my features isn’t examined too closely. My teammates’ exclamations and tears of joy are enough to distract everyone from my morose expression as I am lowered back to the floor—as I, with humility and grace, offer forced smiles and careful hugs to my teammates.

If only I could revel in this joy like they are. Maybe then I would find true peace.

And yet, even as we line up in parallel lines to slap each other’s hands in good sportsmanship—Bluejays on one side and Cardinals on the other—I find that my heart aches for what my mother could have seen, how proud she would have been.

She’ll still be proud, I tell myself. Don’t forget that.

Regardless, the thought of my only parent missing a pivotal moment in my life haunts me, to the point where, as we are dismissed to make our way to the locker room, I find myself avoiding the gazes from my fellow teammates.

In the locker room, I lift my eyes to consider myself in the nearby mirror and watch as the light dances across my dark skin, whispering off beads of sweat that still cling to my forehead. The sight—born from a culmination of a year’s worth of practice and effort in the gym—inspires a smile to part my full lips and brightens my demeanor as I undress and step under the hot shower.

“Good game, girls!” Coach Vasquez shouts from outside the locker room. “And good shot, Scarlet!”

Once again: my teammates applaud me, showering me with praises and smiles and thumbs-up. A part of me still can’t believe it.

But the proof is in your bones, I tell myself, in your tired muscles.

I twist the faucet into the off position, wrap a towel around myself, and make my way back to my locker to dress.

I have just slipped into my tennis shoes when my best friend and fellow Bluejays player steps forward.

“You did great tonight,” Ariana, who’d played rear defense, says. “I still can’t believe you were ballsy enough to take that shot.”

“I can’t, either,” I say and laugh not long after. “I didn’t think I’d make it.”

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“I don’t think any of us did.”

I laugh. Nudge her arm with a fist. Smile as she considers me, then look past her at the other girls as they begin to file out of the locker room.

“Guess it’s time to go,” Ariana says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess it is.”

Within moments, the two of us are stepping out of the locker room and filing toward the gymnasium’s exit.

“Scarlet!” Coach Vasquez calls. “Wait up!”

I spin to face my basketball coach. “Yeah, Coach?”

“I just wanted to congratulate you for winning the regionals,” he says. “You did great out there, Scarlet. All your hard work has paid off.”

“Thank you, Coach.”

“I’ll see you Monday. We have Nationals to think about.”

“That we do,” Ariana says before turning and pressing a hand to the gymnasium’s back door. “You ready, Scarlet?”

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

Ariana pushes the door open and ushers us out into the humid Louisianan air.

We cross the back lot toward the parking lot in shared silence, careful to avoid loitering students or the parents who have come to pick them up. Heads high, backs straight, we cross the rear parking lot with smiles on our faces—and, I know, determination in our hearts.

We have just reached the edge of the curb, and are approaching Ariana’s mother’s car, when my best friend turns and asks, “Are you sure you don’t want a ride home?”

“It’s not far,” I reply, turning my head to look down the road. “Besides—I don’t think I can bear to sit still.”

“You’re sure?” Ariana asks. “It’s really no trouble. It’s on the way, you know.”

“I know. Don’t worry about it.”

With a nod, Ariana steps forward, wraps me in a brief hug, then takes a step back. “Call me so we can make plans,” she then says. “We need to celebrate!”

“We definitely will,” I say.

With that said, I turn and begin to make my way down the street.

It isn’t long before the sounds of idling cars and chattering people are replaced by the drone of cicadas in the nearby trees and bushes.

In this area of town, there are few, if any, streetlamps to guide me; and given the lack of cars, I cannot depend upon headlights to illuminate my path. Because of this, I am forced to tread lightly by moonlight and continue onward, only occasionally pausing to consider how far down the path I am.

In all, it will take maybe ten or so minutes for me to make it home.

She’s gonna be so proud, I think. She won’t believe it.

The sound of something shifting in the bushes brings me to a halt.

“Hello?” I ask. “Is someone there?”

Nothing responds.

It’s just a cat, I tell myself. You know it is.

Still, the fact that I am a girl of only five-four, wandering alone in the later hours of the night, is not lost upon me. My mother has always gotten after me for walking the streets at night, telling me it’s not safe and that I was going to get my ass robbed one of these nights. I’d always cautioned her that I could run faster than any dumbass who’d tried to mess with me, but on a night like this—when the streets are dark, and the moon is the only light around—I find myself wishing that I’d taken Ariana’s offer up on a ride home.

With a shake of my head, I continue to make my way down the road, all the while forcing myself to fear the feeling of dread, of panic.

Of doom.

Nervous, now, more than ever, and spooked beyond compare, I quicken my pace and half-walk, half-jog down the road to my house.

The wind picks up.

The cicadas fall silent.

The moon disappears behind the clouds, thrusting the world into silence.

Run, something tells me.

I bolt—not bothering to look behind me to see if anyone or anything is pursuing me. My footsteps slap against the concrete like gunshots, and the resulting noise causes a dog to bark, which in turn disturbs a flock of grackles, which takes flight from the trees over my head like murder in the dead of night. My legs scream despite the fact that I am conditioned to running, but my mind, it races with possibilities.

Who is following me?

What is following me?

I have no sooner dodged around the neighbors’ trash cans and am approaching the edge of my mother’s property when I lift my eyes—

Only to find that the porch light is on, and the door is slightly ajar.

No, I think.

My mother wouldn’t have left the door open… especially not this late at night.

Stepping forward, I reach into my pocket and finger for my keys with a trembling hand.

Cool metal slips across my fingers.

I withdraw the keys and align my fingers through the rings as I tentatively approach our home.

The scent of something bitter strikes me almost instantly. Something that smells like—

Blood.

The thought occurs in but an instant. It is irrational beyond compare, but at this late at night, and with the door agape, I can’t help but tremble.

My mother should have been on the couch, dozing while waiting for me to return.

I mount the porch, clear my throat, and ask, “Mom?”

I almost instantly curse myself. If someone has broken in, I’ve just announced my presence plain as day. And if there is anyone in the house, surely they would—

I take hold of the handle. Feel somewhat wet on my hand.

“Gross,” I mumble and reach down to wipe my hand on my pants.

A shuffle of movement sounds inside the house.

With a sigh of relief, I step onto the porch. “Mom,” I say, a hint of laughter in my voice. “Why did you leave the door open? You about scared the hell out of—”

Me, I want to finish.

But I cannot.

The moment my eyes fall upon the darkened space of my home is the moment I feel all sense of self leave me.

For a moment, I cannot comprehend what I am seeing.

Then, a second later, I am jarred into focus.

Hovering above a puddle of blood is a person—or, at least, what should be a person.

Except it isn’t a person.

No.

It hisses as it looks at me—as it rises from the pool of blood to face me at its full height. Flesh dangles from its mouth. Blood runs down its lips. Vicious and calculating eyes look upon me with the intent of a predator sizing up its prey.

Dwarfed beneath its height is my mother’s form, sprawled within the pool of blood, a silent scream upon her face.

No.

No.

“No,” I whisper.

The creature hisses as it starts toward me.

“No!” I cry. “No, no, no! Mama! Mama! No!”

The creature bares it fangs.

I scream. Turn. Run.

My shrill cry echoes through the neighborhood as across the street several porch lights burst to life.

For a moment, I am blinded by their radiance, which are like stars winking into existence in a desolate universe.

A second later, I spin—

Only to find that the creature is gone.

But my mother—

My mother—

She is still there. Still lying on the ground. Still in the pool of her own blood.

Dead.

“Dead,” I whisper, almost unable to believe the word as it leaves my lips.

Then it hits me—like a freight train colliding with a poor, unfortunate soul in the dead of night.

The scream that follows seems to rip my soul from my body.

“What’s going on?” a man asks as a nearby door opens.

“My mother!” I wail. “It killed my mother!”

“What?” the man asks.

“I… it… she—”

I fall to my knees on the asphalt and wail.

The man—who has since approached, and is trembling himself—reaches down to take hold of my arms. “Come here,” he says. “You can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”

“I don’t want to leave,” I sob, pushing him away with a hand I now realize has blood on it. Her blood. My mother’s blood. “I can’t leave her. I can’t leave my mother. I can’t! I can’t!”

The sound of wailing sirens enters my ears moments before a police vehicle rolls along the curb.

“What’s going on?” I hear a policewoman asks.

“There was a break-in,” the man replies. “She’s saying her mother was killed.”

“What?” the policewoman asks once more.

Her partner draws his weapon and edges toward the house. “We have a break-in,” the policeman says, “suspect possibly still in the house. Send backup. Over.”

“Is anyone still in the house?” the policewoman asks as she approaches me. “Honey… is anyone still in the house?”

“I—” I start to say. “I don’t… they aren’t…”

My vision begins to blacken at the edges.

“Get an EMT over here STAT,” the policewoman replies. “She’s losing consciousness.”

“Stay with me,” the man who’d approached me says. “You’re going to be okay. You’re safe.”

“My mother—” I start to say.

But a moment later, my vision blackens completely.

I fall back.

Hit the ground.

Then I lose consciousness.