The boy.
I strong-arm the door open and leap from my car. Running alongside the road’s shoulder, I search for him, but the terrain beneath my feet betrays me, becoming unbalanced and thick. My effort proves futile anyway because the boy is nowhere in sight.
What the . . . ?
Confusion sends me racing across the road and looking for the rubber ball, but it’s not there, either.
I’m positive I saw both.
There’s a park about a hundred feet off to my right. Maybe the kid came from there? Then common sense throws me a dummy-slap.
A boy. Playing with a ball. In the middle of a storm?
Wait, what storm?
I look up. The sky couldn’t be clearer, covered only with a blanket of stars. My gaze drops to the asphalt, and I’m even more bewildered: dry as sandpaper.
How does that happen? Rapid evaporation?
Before I can ponder the laws of physics, pain knifes at my skull, followed by a dull throbbing ache behind my ears. I touch my forehead, inspect my fingers: blood.
Injured.
That’s not good.
I stagger back toward the car, but about halfway there, it’s clear the rest of my body isn’t catching up with the plan. My equilibrium falters, and the earth turns to rubber. I stumble, then lean forward, and with hands rested on knees, try to find my balance.
Inside my car, the rearview mirror reveals the damage: a nasty gash just above my left brow, complemented by an unforgiving lump near the right temple. I remember smacking into the side window. I must have hit the steering wheel after my impromptu landing in the ditch.
Now I’m starting to worry just how serious my injury might be. I reach for a penlight, shine it into my eyes, but the pupils don’t appear dilated. I find some relief in that, because it indicates that even if I’ve suffered a concussion, it’s more than likely minor. After locating a box of tissues in my glove compartment, I apply gentle pressure to the wound and dab away the blood.
Back to the tree again. I take a closer look and see its trunk is split wide open, the base littered with pieces of jagged, rusted metal and broken plastic.
That could have been me. I could be dead right now.
I remind myself how notoriously dangerous this road is, how I’m constantly hearing about accidents on the news involving horrific injuries or even fatalities. It would appear I’m among the luckier ranks.
So what should I do now?
Call for help, idiot.
Help . . . yeah . . . Get help, that’s it. I find my phone on the floorboard, but there’s no signal. A quick glance around reminds me why. The road is situated in a low point with foothills all around. I can’t count the number of times my phone has dropped calls while passing through here. I set my gaze uphill, knowing I’ll be able to get reception there.
After turning the ignition key, I’m thankful to hear the engine start. I straighten my wheels, put the car into reverse, and rock my way out of the ditch. Seconds later, I’m racing up the hill.
13
Or maybe I was wrong.
I’m at the summit’s peak, but my phone still isn’t showing me the love. No bars.
To my right, I spot a potential explanation, another taller foothill that’s likely blocking the cell signal. But I also see a clearing about a hundred feet away, so I get out of the car and trot toward it.
When I arrive, the bars at last make an appearance, only three, but I’ll take them. I dial my wife and wait for her to pick up.
She does.
“Hi, honey . . . ,” I say, for the first time realizing how thick my tongue feels as it wades through the sentence. “I’m okay, but I . . . but I’ve accident.”
“What?”
“I mean . . . I . . . I’ve had an accident.”
“How bad? Are you okay?” Jenna’s voice grows more distraught with each syllable. “Where are you?”
“Yeah . . . my think my am . . .” I try to assure her, but my hoarse voice and jumbled words strain credibility beyond reasonable limits.
“Where are you?” she again asks.
“I was on Saxony . . . I lost control in the rain, swerved to miss a tree but . . . but ended up running . . . off the . . . I ran off the road.”
“Chris, I don’t like the way you sound at all.”
“I hit my head on the steering wheel.”
“What? Have you called an ambulance?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Baby, you can barely even speak.”
“I checked my pupils. They’re fine. I can handle this.”
“You can’t, and I’m not about to let you try. I’ll be there in—”
“No!” I cut her off. “Don’t!”
About five seconds of quiet.
“It’s just . . . ,” I say, hearing desperate urgency in my voice that I’m unable to conceal. “I don’t want you driving so late with Devon. This road is dangerous enough.”
“Chris, this is not a good time for your persistent worries about Devon. You’ve been hurt. I can handle the road, and I’ll call for the sitter.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“But you can’t possibly think you’re getting behind the wheel like this.”
“Honey, I’m more . . . I’m qualified to say I can drive or not.”
You can barely put two words together, Dr. Moronic.
Shut up!
“I’m sorry,” Jenna says, “but not on my watch. Either call Adam, or I’m on my way.”
“I can’t just leave my car here,” I say, at last finding a foothold on clarity.
“That’s not important now! We can get it in the morning.”
I let out a long sigh. My wife’s got me beat in the persistence department. Has the stubborn down pretty well, too. After a few seconds, I relent and say, “Okay, I’ll get a hold of Adam.”
“Call me when he’s there,” Jenna adds, then without allowing me a response, hangs up.