Jennifer Richard Jacobson: Hi, I'm Jennifer Richard Jacobson, author of Crashing in Love. The idea for this story came from a real life event. One afternoon, my friend, Jim, hopped on his bicycle and headed for the store. As he traveled, he saw a pile of clothes in the middle of the road. Curious, he swung back around. It wasn't a pile of clothes. It was a woman. She had been hit by a car and was unconscious. Jim hadn't bothered to bring his phone. He couldn't call for help. So he stood over the woman and waved his arms, hoping someone would stop. Unfortunately, drivers misunderstood him and they simply veered around.

Eventually, though, a man did stop. The man used to be a police officer, and he was used to handling situations like these. He used his phone to call an ambulance. After the ambulance had come and gone, the two men exchanged phone numbers. Jim couldn't stop thinking about the woman. He called the man who had helped to see if he had any new information. And he did. Unfortunately, he said, the woman had died on the way to the hospital. Jim was so distraught. If only he brought his phone with him, he might've been able to help the woman sooner. Not knowing what to do with all of these feelings, he hopped on his bike and rode to the hospital.

There, he learned that the woman had not died. She was still alive. She was in a coma. And Jim was allowed to sit with the woman until her family arrived. Eventually she woke and Jim continued to visit her regularly. And what was that woman's name? Destiny. I couldn't stop thinking about this story. I thought, what if it hadn't been a man on his bike but a nearly thirteen-year-old girl? And what if it hadn't been a woman hit by a car, but a boy about the girl's age? And what if the girl, Peyton, had already decided that this would be the summer of her first boyfriend?

I'm going to read to you now an excerpt from Crashing in Love. This is the moment when Peyton is talking to the emergency dispatcher. She's called 911. She did have her phone unlike Jim. And it turns out that the emergency dispatcher is her former first grade teacher, Mrs. Dwyer. So here it is. This is Mrs. Dwyer speaking:

"That's right, Peyton. You don't want to move him. I've got help coming. How old would you say he is?"

I glance down again. "Twelve or thirteen?"

I squat down again and touch his hand.

His fingers twitch.

Omigod! He's alive!

"He's alive!" I shout into the phone.

"Is he conscious?" Mrs. Dwyer asks.

"Can you hear me?" I say to the boy, louder this time.

No response.

I stare at the hand that moved, which -- and I know this is incredibly strange to say -- is nearly perfect in shape. His fingernails are square, and he has a scratch on his thumb.

I reach out and gently take his hand, and I swear on my life I feel movement. "I'm here," I say. "I'm not going to leave you. I promise. Just hang on."