Authors: Fabio Bueno
“Three blocks,” he yells. He is not afraid, but perhaps a little embarrassed by his suggestion of taking a shortcut.
It wasn’t a good idea.
S
tream
s
of
thick
mud cross our path and flow
down to our left. We’re caught in
the
middle.
We hear a
roar
at the same time. I
glance
at him. H
e looks to his right, and
then
he
shoves me away
without warning. B
efore I know it
,
I’m sliding down the
slope
,
grasping for plants to stop my descent,
and a tree
is falling over him. He tries to get
out of its way. T
he trunk misses him, but one of the main branches hits him
in
the head. He tumbles over, and I scream.
P
ull
ing
myself up
with the help of the vegetation, I
try to get back to the path.
My special glasses are gone, and I know I
sprained something, but I don’t care.
The falling tree slid
es
down wi
th Drake caught in the branches. It drags him
for
just a few feet
. He’s facedown, motionless, a little to the left of the trail.
At least
the tree didn’t drag him down all the way. I
crawl to
him and
call his name. I turn him over.
Drake’s
unconscious
, but breathing
.
Under the dirt, h
is
face is scratched,
the
mud
making a grotesque mask. On his
right temple
, a big gash pours red,
sticky
blood.
I pull back, not in disgust, but in sh
ock.
Another
roar of
thunder startle
s
me, but it also awakens me.
I know any
head
wound
will
blee
d profusely, even
a minor cut
.
And he’s
knocked out. I reach for my cell, before remembering I didn’t bring it to Seattle. I
recall
he received a text when
we
were
talking earlier; he had a clip-on on his belt. I
search in vain for
it.
It probably fell
and slid down the slope, lost in the dark mud now.
Desperate,
I try to clean his face with rainwater. I use my jacket’s sleeve to halt the blood coming from the gash. When the fabric absorbs the thick liquid, I see the cut
is
deep and wide.
S
erious.
Life-threatening.
I look around, as if the tree
s have the answers.
Wake up
, Skye. This is real. And you can do
something about it
. I focus,
ignoring the storm, the thunder, the pain. I try to remember
Judi
’s
and
Mum’s
lessons, all those words and gestures I thought would be useless. They come to me.
Still kneeling, I close my eyes
and
stretch out
my arms
to the sides
, the palm
s
of my hand
s facing up.
R
ainwat
er
washes
over me, cleansing me; t
he rawness of the storm helps me attune
to
n
ature
.
The elements and I become one.
Empowered by the Goddess,
I feel
my personal magic flow
ing inside
me.
With my eyes wide open now, I
lean over him
and remove the jacket’s sleeve from the wound. I get
his
blood on my right hand
and make a
triangular shape
of
dark
red o
n his forehead.
I
take off
his sneakers and socks
, arrange his body
in a spread-eagle position
,
and
draw
triangles
o
n the palms of his hands
and
on his feet. Without my ceremonial knife, I have to improvise: my fingers dig deep into the wet dirt to make a circle around
Drake
. I get back to my original
stance
, kneeling
beside
him
, and use the words from a language long gone
.
There, in the dark, in the deluge, I say my ancient prayer. I hope it’s
enough.
So, that’s
what
being hit by a truck feels like, I guess.
The emergency room smells
of
antiseptic
and boredom. The doctor, a cutie too young to be out of
m
ed
school, reads my
CAT
scan
results. She tells my father
that
I’m okay
,
but
they’ll be watching me overnight.
A
still-soaked Skye stares at them.
She’s standing n
ext to the curtain that separates me from other unfortunate people
.
The blue of her eyes is subdued
.
“Are you sure?
” Dad asks the doctor.
“
Skye,”
he
continues, pointing
to
my savior
, “said a tree fell on him.
A
tree
.
He’s
only
got
a
mild
concussion. How is that possible?”
I look at Skye.
T
here it is, a faint knowing
smile. I see it
—
it’s not my
possibly damaged
brain playing tricks on me. That smile
goes to the top
o
f
the pile of questions I have for her.
“He w
as very lucky, that’s all,” the
doctor tells my father.
She looks like a kid wearing a lab coat for Halloween.
“
What we see here is not unlike a football hit
.
They bring boys to the ER
with this type of concussion
all the time.”
It’s true. Boulder
had one last year. Which
is not really comforting
:
no way he can
be called a model of
a
health
y mind
.
After
the young
doctor leaves, my father approaches my bed. “You feeling better, buddy?”
“I’m buzzed, that’s all.
Feeling very good, actually.
Please add
Percocet
to the shopping list, Dad.”
“Okay, you sound
like yourself
,” he says,
tapping my hand, but
still
concerned
. That’s my father
:
concerned
all the time.
Adding another burden to him i
s almost cruel
, after all he’s
been through
.
He turns
to Skye, “Thanks again, Skye. I—
”
She cuts him
off
gently. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Hunter.”
“
No, I mean it. Anything, anytime. Just let me know.”
She nods
sympathetically.
Dad
faces
me. “It was a hell of a storm. A lot of fallen trees,
mudslides, flash
flood
s
, even a blackout west of I-5. Be
glad the hospital
has
backup energy.” I can see the wariness in his eyes.
“Now, Drake,
I
’ll tell
the
good
news to
your friends
.
And call Mona.
Be right back.”
“Sure,” I say. “
Wait. My friends?”
“Yes
,”
he
says
.
“
Sean and Boulder have be
en sitting outside for hours, but visit
ing
time’s over now
.
I’ll tell them to go home.
”
That surprises me.
Even though they’re my best friends, I’m not
their
best friend.
I mean,
Sean is Boulder’s and vice-versa. I’m
kind of
their backup best friend.
There’s this unspoken pecking order among us: Boulder is the alpha-dog, Sean is
his
sidekick, and I’m there just for entertainment purposes. I don’t complain. They
hang out with me
, and I’m grateful.
Having them
watch
ing
over me is
unexpected
.
I look to my right and see Skye staring at me.
She comes over, puts her hand on my shoulder, and I
feel a tsunami of goose bumps
.
“The shortcut was a little longer than I thought,” I
tell her
. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You saved me,
” she says.
I rem
ember. I shoved her away when
the tree
fell
.
I
nstinct.
“Wel
l, you saved me
more.
” I
smile
.
Skye lets out a soft chuckle. “A
ctually
, I
left you and found someone
with a cell p
hone.
Not very heroic.”
I know t
hat’s not a
ll, but she doesn’t mention it.
I respect it. I owe
it to
her.
“Still,” I say
instead
.
“Call it even?” She
grins
. She’s so beautiful my head hurts. Oh, wait, that’s not it.
Dad pokes his head in. “Drake, listen. I’m
taking
Skye to her house
. I’ll be back, all right?
Mona
is sleeping over at
her freaky friend’s house
.
”
I’m
drifting to sleep, and I try to understand what Dad
says. Mona is my little sist
er, the world’s most neurotic fourteen
-year-old. Right now, she’s probably thinking my near-death experience is some cheap ploy to get Dad’s attention.
Her “freaky friend” is
most likely
tha
t
goth
girl who calls herself “
R
ain”
or something. Okay, brain still works.
“I think I’m going to crash before
you get back
,” I say,
suppress
ing
a yawn.
Skye’s hand leaves my shoulder, and I miss it. I wish I could
keep
her touch
with
me the whole night. I long for a gesture of caring from her.
“Sweet dreams,” Skye says
as she leaves
.
That
wi
ll do.
***
I wake up in the morning, and I remember the year and my name. So far, so good.
The problem is, I
also remember what happened
during the
storm
. W
hat I didn’t have the heart to ask Skye last night.
I was
drifting
in and out of consciousness
with an
excruciating
pain in my head
. Skye was in front me, in
a yoga pose
or something
. Then,
darkness.