feel in his gut that with just a little more effort on his part, Ben could dramatically improve his relationship with his children. They would love him for it.
Kurt had to work so much harder.
Some people are loved more easily than others, he told himself.
Through the passenger window, Kurt could see Peter grinning as Ben started to cross the street. Peter was holding up something gray.
And then that something exploded.
Kurt would remember it afterwards, the flash igniting right in Peter’s arms. The police would say later that it pretty much vaporized him before bursting windows up and down the block and leaving the van engulfed in a fireball.
But that was later.
Then, Kurt stood behind his own cracked window, momentarily confused into total inaction. His eyes were focused on Ben, lying in the street, obviously bloodied, maybe dead.
CHAPTER 8
NO SOUND, AT FIRST.
Ringing, but no identifiable sounds.
Blurred vision.
Crazy corner view. The street. Lying in the street, smelling the oil in the asphalt.
Color off to one side, bright orange.
Heat.
Try to look. Can’t see it clearly. Still blurred. Yellow, orange, and black. Moving.
God, not my eyes.
Ringing louder.
People suddenly there. Someone dragging him.
Faint voices. “Watch his neck, watch his neck!”
Try the eyes again. Seeing. Seeing someone over him.
Pain. Incredible white pain. Taking his breath away.
Looking again. Seeing Kurt above him now, pushing people away, yelling something. Not hearing a goddamn thing now except for the louder ringing.
Jesus! The fire. Fire burning his legs, the back of his hands, his head.
He sat up to look again, to see if the bright orange had moved onto him, if he was inflamed. Someone pushed him back down. He wondered mutely why they hadn’t pulled him away far enough.
But the flames, the orange, was still in the blurred distance.
Close up, he could see red. Blood. He looked at his hands. Just dripping. He moved them and it hurt like hell, and he opened his mouth and he probably screamed something, but he couldn’t hear anything.
Just that goddamn ringing.
He looked up, saw Kurt above him now, saw his face sharp and clear, saw that the guy was worried and saying something to him, and then faintly Ben heard the word, first heard “ittle,” and then he listened closer, so damn happy that he could hear and see that he forgot that agonizing pain that was spreading hot along the backs of his legs and alongside his head. He heard Kurt say, “Hospital.”
It took the ambulance just about forever to arrive. By the time they had strapped Ben onto a stretcher, he had arrived safely into a semblance of the world he knew. By then, he could hear clearly enough past the ringing. And although his eyes still watered, he could see clearly when he wiped them.
“You’ll be fine,” Kurt told him.
“Yeah,” Ben managed. “I’m fine.”
Fine enough to see that he had dozens upon dozens of cuts from flying glass and that his clothes were soaked with blood. Fine enough to believe the EMT who was saying he’d be all right if they could keep the infection from setting in.
Fine enough to see inside that roiling mass of flames that had once been his van.
Andi was there when he awoke at the hospital.
“Hey, you,” she said. “Are you going to keep scaring the hell out of me every two weeks from now on?”
He started to talk, but his voice was barely a croak.
“Here.” She handed him a cup of water with a straw. “They said you’d be thirsty when you awoke. They’ve picked about fifty slivers of glass out of you. Mostly your left leg and a bit of your shoulder and scalp. Your windbreaker and camera bag stopped most of the glass, and your world-famous reflexes turned your face away in time.”
She bent over and kissed him on the cheek.
“I’m so sorry about Peter,” she whispered.
He drew her head down to his chest, and closed his eyes. Seeing Peter
Kurt had to work so much harder.
Some people are loved more easily than others, he told himself.
Through the passenger window, Kurt could see Peter grinning as Ben started to cross the street. Peter was holding up something gray.
And then that something exploded.
Kurt would remember it afterwards, the flash igniting right in Peter’s arms. The police would say later that it pretty much vaporized him before bursting windows up and down the block and leaving the van engulfed in a fireball.
But that was later.
Then, Kurt stood behind his own cracked window, momentarily confused into total inaction. His eyes were focused on Ben, lying in the street, obviously bloodied, maybe dead.
CHAPTER 8
NO SOUND, AT FIRST.
Ringing, but no identifiable sounds.
Blurred vision.
Crazy corner view. The street. Lying in the street, smelling the oil in the asphalt.
Color off to one side, bright orange.
Heat.
Try to look. Can’t see it clearly. Still blurred. Yellow, orange, and black. Moving.
God, not my eyes.
Ringing louder.
People suddenly there. Someone dragging him.
Faint voices. “Watch his neck, watch his neck!”
Try the eyes again. Seeing. Seeing someone over him.
Pain. Incredible white pain. Taking his breath away.
Looking again. Seeing Kurt above him now, pushing people away, yelling something. Not hearing a goddamn thing now except for the louder ringing.
Jesus! The fire. Fire burning his legs, the back of his hands, his head.
He sat up to look again, to see if the bright orange had moved onto him, if he was inflamed. Someone pushed him back down. He wondered mutely why they hadn’t pulled him away far enough.
But the flames, the orange, was still in the blurred distance.
Close up, he could see red. Blood. He looked at his hands. Just dripping. He moved them and it hurt like hell, and he opened his mouth and he probably screamed something, but he couldn’t hear anything.
Just that goddamn ringing.
He looked up, saw Kurt above him now, saw his face sharp and clear, saw that the guy was worried and saying something to him, and then faintly Ben heard the word, first heard “ittle,” and then he listened closer, so damn happy that he could hear and see that he forgot that agonizing pain that was spreading hot along the backs of his legs and alongside his head. He heard Kurt say, “Hospital.”
It took the ambulance just about forever to arrive. By the time they had strapped Ben onto a stretcher, he had arrived safely into a semblance of the world he knew. By then, he could hear clearly enough past the ringing. And although his eyes still watered, he could see clearly when he wiped them.
“You’ll be fine,” Kurt told him.
“Yeah,” Ben managed. “I’m fine.”
Fine enough to see that he had dozens upon dozens of cuts from flying glass and that his clothes were soaked with blood. Fine enough to believe the EMT who was saying he’d be all right if they could keep the infection from setting in.
Fine enough to see inside that roiling mass of flames that had once been his van.
Andi was there when he awoke at the hospital.
“Hey, you,” she said. “Are you going to keep scaring the hell out of me every two weeks from now on?”
He started to talk, but his voice was barely a croak.
“Here.” She handed him a cup of water with a straw. “They said you’d be thirsty when you awoke. They’ve picked about fifty slivers of glass out of you. Mostly your left leg and a bit of your shoulder and scalp. Your windbreaker and camera bag stopped most of the glass, and your world-famous reflexes turned your face away in time.”
She bent over and kissed him on the cheek.
“I’m so sorry about Peter,” she whispered.
He drew her head down to his chest, and closed his eyes. Seeing Peter
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