temple and down his right cheek, pouring over his ear and onto his
white T-shirt. His eyes were closed, his mouth open. The blood was
oozing from a hole the size of a golf ball in his forehead. It looked as
though his temple had been dragged on the asphalt, scraping away
skin, then bone. I leaned close and peered inside the wound.
Something soft and spongy glistened back at me. I slipped out of my
jacket and pressed it to Shawn’s head.
When I touched the abrasion, Shawn released a long sigh and his
eyes opened.
“Sidlister,” he mumbled. Then he seemed to lose consciousness.
My cellphone was in my pocket. I dialed. Dad answered.
I must have been frantic, sputtering. I said Shawn had crashed his
bike, that he had a hole in his head.
“Slow down. What happened?”
I said it all a second time. “What should I do?”
“Bring him home,” Dad said. “Your mother will deal with it.”
I opened my mouth but no words came out. Finally, I said, “I’m not
joking. His brain, I can see it!”
“Bring him home,” Dad said. “Your mother can handle it.” Then: the
dull drone of a dial tone. He’d hung up.
Dwain had overheard. “I live just through this field,” he said. “Your
mother can treat him there.”
“No,” I said. “Dad wants him home. Help me get him in the car.”
Shawn groaned when we lifted him but he didn’t speak again.
Someone said we should wait for the ambulance. Someone else said we
should drive him to the hospital ourselves. I don’t think anyone
believed we would take him home, not with his brain dribbling out of
his forehead.
We folded Shawn into the backseat. I got behind the wheel, and
Dwain climbed in on the passenger side. I checked my rearview mirror
to pull onto the highway, then reached up and shoved the mirror
downward so it reflected Shawn’s face, blank and bloodied. My foot
hovered over the gas.
Three seconds passed, maybe four. That’s all it was.