foot in pain, she brought the end of
the two-by-four down on his other instep.
The man’s howls were not as loud as those of the man with the dislocated knee, but
they were loud enough to confirm her hope that she had broken some of the small, narrow
bones in his feet. He staggered stiffly on his heels, as though his legs were made
of wood.
Jane raised the two-by-four with both hands, clutching it like a harpoon, but instead
of jabbing the man again, she pivoted and aimed her stab at the chest of his partner.
The man’s attempt to duck her attack by crouching brought the butt of the two-by-four
to the level of his collarbone. It hit the bone hard and slipped upward into his trachea.
He grasped his throat with both hands and bent over, trying to protect it and breathe
at the same time. Jane swung the two-by-four down hard on his head and he collapsed
forward onto the pavement, dazed but conscious.
The three men were badly hurt, and as she swept her eyes to survey them, they began
to edge away from her. She took out her lock-blade knife and flicked open the blade
with her right thumb. She said, “In ten seconds I start cutting.”
The two men who could walk began to hobble away down the alley they had come from.
The man with the broken leg shouted, “Wait! Help me. Please!”
The man bent over holding his trachea kept going, but the one with the injured feet
and the broken, bloody nose relented. He stopped and limped back, pulled his friend
up so he could stand on his one good leg, and took his arm over his shoulder to help
him hop off along the alley.
Jane was left with Jimmy’s prone and unmoving body. She set the two-by-four beside
him and knelt to feel his pulse. It was strong and steady. She patted his cheek, and
then patted it harder. “Wake up, Jimmy,” she whispered. “We’ve got to get out of here
before their friends show up.” She looked closely at the wound where the two-by-four
had hit his head. The blood was already beginning to glue his hair in hard tufts,
but his skull was not misshapen. The wound had bled a lot at first, but appeared to
have nearly stopped. Jane kept raising her eyes to look farther into the alley, then
to see if anyone was coming on the street. “Come on, Jimmy,” she whispered. “You’re
going to be okay. You’ve got to be.” She saw her pack lying on the ground, pulled
it to her, and searched for the half bottle of water she’d saved. She took a kerchief,
made it wet, and dabbed at his wound. She poured some of the water on it, and he began
to stir.
“It’s me, Jimmy,” she said. “Wake up.”
After another try, he opened his eyes. His hand went to his head.
“It’s probably better not to touch it,” she said.
“Wha—wow,” he moaned. “I know somebody hit me.”
“That’s right,” she said. “You could have a concussion. Just lie there for a minute
and get your bearings, if you can.”
“What happened?”
“You got knocked on the head.” It sounded worse to her, because that was the way the
old Senecas used to refer to death in battle—getting knocked on the head. “Don’t worry,
though. They were trying to rob us, but they didn’t.”
Jimmy felt for his wallet, and confirmed that it was still there. The movement seemed
to bring him more awareness. “I feel awful.” He sat up.
“Take it slow. Just sit for a few minutes.” She wanted to say exactly the opposite,
but moving too soon might be a mistake.
Jimmy stood up and leaned against the wall of the building on that side of the alley.
Now that he was standing, he saw the pavement, the two-by-four, the wall on the opposite
side. “Lots of blood.” He looked down the alley and saw the three men, still trying
to hop or hobble away. One of them turned, and Jimmy could see the blood covering
the front of him.
“It’s mostly nosebleeds,” she said. “Let’s try walking.” She helped him out of the
alley to
the two-by-four down on his other instep.
The man’s howls were not as loud as those of the man with the dislocated knee, but
they were loud enough to confirm her hope that she had broken some of the small, narrow
bones in his feet. He staggered stiffly on his heels, as though his legs were made
of wood.
Jane raised the two-by-four with both hands, clutching it like a harpoon, but instead
of jabbing the man again, she pivoted and aimed her stab at the chest of his partner.
The man’s attempt to duck her attack by crouching brought the butt of the two-by-four
to the level of his collarbone. It hit the bone hard and slipped upward into his trachea.
He grasped his throat with both hands and bent over, trying to protect it and breathe
at the same time. Jane swung the two-by-four down hard on his head and he collapsed
forward onto the pavement, dazed but conscious.
The three men were badly hurt, and as she swept her eyes to survey them, they began
to edge away from her. She took out her lock-blade knife and flicked open the blade
with her right thumb. She said, “In ten seconds I start cutting.”
The two men who could walk began to hobble away down the alley they had come from.
The man with the broken leg shouted, “Wait! Help me. Please!”
The man bent over holding his trachea kept going, but the one with the injured feet
and the broken, bloody nose relented. He stopped and limped back, pulled his friend
up so he could stand on his one good leg, and took his arm over his shoulder to help
him hop off along the alley.
Jane was left with Jimmy’s prone and unmoving body. She set the two-by-four beside
him and knelt to feel his pulse. It was strong and steady. She patted his cheek, and
then patted it harder. “Wake up, Jimmy,” she whispered. “We’ve got to get out of here
before their friends show up.” She looked closely at the wound where the two-by-four
had hit his head. The blood was already beginning to glue his hair in hard tufts,
but his skull was not misshapen. The wound had bled a lot at first, but appeared to
have nearly stopped. Jane kept raising her eyes to look farther into the alley, then
to see if anyone was coming on the street. “Come on, Jimmy,” she whispered. “You’re
going to be okay. You’ve got to be.” She saw her pack lying on the ground, pulled
it to her, and searched for the half bottle of water she’d saved. She took a kerchief,
made it wet, and dabbed at his wound. She poured some of the water on it, and he began
to stir.
“It’s me, Jimmy,” she said. “Wake up.”
After another try, he opened his eyes. His hand went to his head.
“It’s probably better not to touch it,” she said.
“Wha—wow,” he moaned. “I know somebody hit me.”
“That’s right,” she said. “You could have a concussion. Just lie there for a minute
and get your bearings, if you can.”
“What happened?”
“You got knocked on the head.” It sounded worse to her, because that was the way the
old Senecas used to refer to death in battle—getting knocked on the head. “Don’t worry,
though. They were trying to rob us, but they didn’t.”
Jimmy felt for his wallet, and confirmed that it was still there. The movement seemed
to bring him more awareness. “I feel awful.” He sat up.
“Take it slow. Just sit for a few minutes.” She wanted to say exactly the opposite,
but moving too soon might be a mistake.
Jimmy stood up and leaned against the wall of the building on that side of the alley.
Now that he was standing, he saw the pavement, the two-by-four, the wall on the opposite
side. “Lots of blood.” He looked down the alley and saw the three men, still trying
to hop or hobble away. One of them turned, and Jimmy could see the blood covering
the front of him.
“It’s mostly nosebleeds,” she said. “Let’s try walking.” She helped him out of the
alley to
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