The man slowly peered up from between the protection of his arms, and I was taken aback.
Although he was bleeding profusely, I still recognized him—he was the runner who had come out
of the cemetery shortly after I did, right before I had disappeared down the hill.
My hands came to my mouth, trying to suppress the cry that was building at the edge of my
throat. And the man on the ground immediately turned his bloodied eyes to me. He must have seen
my sudden movement in the shadows, I thought … like a coward, I withdrew further into the
shadows for fear that he would betray my presence and present the attackers with an alternate
prey.
When he turned to his aggressors and said something that I couldn’t hear, my heart dropped. I
felt powerless. Was I still breathing?
Whatever the crouched man had whispered to the boy in the gray sweater, it had sent him over the
edge. His arms started shaking. He brought his hand to his back, pulled a gun from the waist of
his jeans and shots rang out in the dead air.
When my eyes came to refocus, the man on the ground had stopped moving. Blood spattered the
ground, and the three other men who were flanking the shooter had spun around.
They looked at me with complete surprise on their face.
Without realizing it, I had been screaming and I was still screaming and shaking and I couldn’t
stop or move any other part of my body … like my legs, to run away from them.
“Cameron,” breathlessly yelled the tattooed man, grabbing the shooter by the shoulder and
forcing him to turn around.
The boy in the gray sweater spun. Our eyes met again, and his face turned pale.
A twig snapped behind me.
The thunder roared one last time … before everything went dark.
Chapter Four:
Chow Mein
There was a flash of light and distant noises. My head felt like someone was taking an ice pick
and chipping away at my skull with sadistic blows. I decided that death couldn’t be this
painful, so I was probably not dead … or this was what hell was supposed to feel like.
My eyes were pried open, and a light came flashing again. This was followed by an animalistic
groan, like a bear cub—was that me?
I managed to flutter my eyes open without anyone’s help. Inches away from my face, someone was
holding a pen-sized flashlight. I couldn’t focus enough to see him, but I could definitely
smell him: cigarettes, booze, dirt.
The ceiling was swimming. I thought I was going to vomit, and I had to let my eyelids drop to
stop the spinning. Slowly, the muffled sounds became words.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” asked the man with the flashlight. His voice was raspy, and I
could smell the nicotine off his breath.
“None of your business,” I managed, my voice bouncing like a rock against the walls of my
skull. I could hear snickering in the background. I tried to get up, but barely managed to get
my head off the pillow before it fell back with a thump.
“Whoa there, sweetheart! Not so fast! You’ve got a pretty big bump on that little noggin of
yours,” said the raspy voice.
That would explain the blinding pain. “My name is definitely not sweetheart,” I defied—and
there was more snickering from the peanut gallery.
“Of course it isn’t, honey. But that’s all I’ve got to work with right now,” he told me.
It’s not honey, either, I thought, but was in too much pain to argue with him on his use of
sexist remarks.
“She’s probably got a mild concussion,” assessed the man with the nicotine breath. “Just
make sure she gets plenty of rest and wake her up every few hours overnight. Give me a call if
she gets any worse.”
“She looks like she’s in pain. Can she take anything?” asked a deep voice that I instantly
recognized. I forced my eyes open. The boy in the gray sweater—Cameron—was standing at the
foot of the bed, and color still hadn’t returned to his face.
“Not for the next twelve hours. But I’ll leave you something for tomorrow,” replied nicotine
breath, like he was in hurry. The doctor’s stink matched his appearance, as if he had just
crawled out of a cardboard box in a back alley. His dress shirt, which might have once been
white, was untucked and had dark yellow and brown stains, particularly under the armpits and
around the collar. His dress pants were grossly wrinkled and equally stained.
“Thanks, Doc.” Cameron furtively glanced in my direction and turned to the scary tattooed man
who was standing behind him, in a soldier-like stance.
There was another boy leaning against the white wall. By the grin on his face, he must have been
the instigator of the earlier giggling at my expense. He was a big kid, standing at least six
feet tall and built like he should be throwing bales of hay around. He reminded me of an
oversized Chucky doll, except with disheveled brown hair instead of red.
With a nod from Cameron, the tattooed man dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of rolled-up
bills. Not missing a beat, the Doc grabbed the cash and rushed out of the room without taking
one more look at his patient. So much for bedside manner.