the words, mouth agape, head throbbing.
“You’re pinned between the Dumpster and the hotel. They have to tow back the car, and the Dumpster, and then we’ll get you out of here.”
“What the fuck happened?” asked Jasper. There were brief spurts of memory, of firing into the passenger window of a van as it drove past. Of police sirens and screeching tires. Hard metal.
“Just hold still, Jasper. Stop trying to get up.”
He should have known better. For a lot of reasons. But right now, he wanted nothing more than to get up and get out of whatever God-forsaken hole he was trapped in. If he were on the scene as a medic, and not as a broken and disoriented victim, he’d be the one offering the calm instructions, the pointless platitudes—hold still, and help’s on the way. It was almost a little annoying to hear Jackson doing all this instead. How did he get out of this so unscathed? The whole thing had been his damned idea.
“Where are they?” Jasper tried asking. “Did the . . . ? Did they . . . ?”
“Single driver,” said Jackson. “I have no idea who he is. But he’s dead.”
Looking between legs, Jasper could see a bloody mound of clothing along the ground. It was hard to make out the details, the shape and direction of the body. There was an exposed hand, shining red with blood. He looked down at his own hands—they were bloodless. As was most of his skin, and his clothing. His arm felt horrible, and he was a little banged up. But he was alive.
He started to feel that rush that would usually come on after a firefight, or some near-death experience. A rush of energy. And when the Dumpster was pulled back and he had room to move, the first thing he did was shoot up onto his feet, to the amazement of the crowd.
There was also a hushed concern, voices telling him to “take it easy,” and “slow down.”
No fucking way. In fact, he would just take care of his arm, right then and there.
“Hey,” called Jackson. “What the hell are you doing?”
Jasper was trying to grab hold of his elbow a certain way, at just the right spot. “Can you get something for my mouth?” he asked Jackson.
“Something for your mouth?”
“To bite down on.”
“Fuck no.” Jackson rushed forward to stop his medical work. “You’re not doing that here. And not by yourself.”
He’d done it to himself plenty of times in the past, even outside of military accidents. It would come in handy when taking a big fall while alone, when he was out hiking or mountain biking, and when the only option for survival was to return home under his own power. He’d slide a stick between his teeth, bite down as hard and long as it took him, and then pop the joint back in place. Just pop that sucker back in. Just do it and be done with it. It didn’t hurt too badly. Not afterward, anyway.
“Jasper, just wait,” said Jackson. “Just take a seat and let’s go over some things before the ambulance gets here.”
“Alright, fine,” said Jasper, then he reached around and popped his shoulder back into place with an intense growl that seemed to startle the onlookers.
“Fuck,” said Jackson.
“Sorry,” Jasper said breathlessly. “Had to.”
It didn’t feel any better yet. But at least it was back in its rightful spot.
“Don’t you want to wait for an X-ray?”
“What good’s an X-ray? I know my shoulder was dislocated. I don’t need an X-ray.” He tried moving his wrist, but it was too painful. “I’ll leave everything else for later, though.” He looked back down at his wrist. The way it had already swelled, it was most likely broken. His elbow, too; it was more than a little sore. Fractured, perhaps.
The crowd that had gathered around him after the Dumpster was removed seemed shocked by not only his shoulder popping, but the fact that he was coherent and on foot. He was in pain, of course, from his hip and his leg and his back, but it was superficial pain. Light damage. Nothing like what the
“You’re pinned between the Dumpster and the hotel. They have to tow back the car, and the Dumpster, and then we’ll get you out of here.”
“What the fuck happened?” asked Jasper. There were brief spurts of memory, of firing into the passenger window of a van as it drove past. Of police sirens and screeching tires. Hard metal.
“Just hold still, Jasper. Stop trying to get up.”
He should have known better. For a lot of reasons. But right now, he wanted nothing more than to get up and get out of whatever God-forsaken hole he was trapped in. If he were on the scene as a medic, and not as a broken and disoriented victim, he’d be the one offering the calm instructions, the pointless platitudes—hold still, and help’s on the way. It was almost a little annoying to hear Jackson doing all this instead. How did he get out of this so unscathed? The whole thing had been his damned idea.
“Where are they?” Jasper tried asking. “Did the . . . ? Did they . . . ?”
“Single driver,” said Jackson. “I have no idea who he is. But he’s dead.”
Looking between legs, Jasper could see a bloody mound of clothing along the ground. It was hard to make out the details, the shape and direction of the body. There was an exposed hand, shining red with blood. He looked down at his own hands—they were bloodless. As was most of his skin, and his clothing. His arm felt horrible, and he was a little banged up. But he was alive.
He started to feel that rush that would usually come on after a firefight, or some near-death experience. A rush of energy. And when the Dumpster was pulled back and he had room to move, the first thing he did was shoot up onto his feet, to the amazement of the crowd.
There was also a hushed concern, voices telling him to “take it easy,” and “slow down.”
No fucking way. In fact, he would just take care of his arm, right then and there.
“Hey,” called Jackson. “What the hell are you doing?”
Jasper was trying to grab hold of his elbow a certain way, at just the right spot. “Can you get something for my mouth?” he asked Jackson.
“Something for your mouth?”
“To bite down on.”
“Fuck no.” Jackson rushed forward to stop his medical work. “You’re not doing that here. And not by yourself.”
He’d done it to himself plenty of times in the past, even outside of military accidents. It would come in handy when taking a big fall while alone, when he was out hiking or mountain biking, and when the only option for survival was to return home under his own power. He’d slide a stick between his teeth, bite down as hard and long as it took him, and then pop the joint back in place. Just pop that sucker back in. Just do it and be done with it. It didn’t hurt too badly. Not afterward, anyway.
“Jasper, just wait,” said Jackson. “Just take a seat and let’s go over some things before the ambulance gets here.”
“Alright, fine,” said Jasper, then he reached around and popped his shoulder back into place with an intense growl that seemed to startle the onlookers.
“Fuck,” said Jackson.
“Sorry,” Jasper said breathlessly. “Had to.”
It didn’t feel any better yet. But at least it was back in its rightful spot.
“Don’t you want to wait for an X-ray?”
“What good’s an X-ray? I know my shoulder was dislocated. I don’t need an X-ray.” He tried moving his wrist, but it was too painful. “I’ll leave everything else for later, though.” He looked back down at his wrist. The way it had already swelled, it was most likely broken. His elbow, too; it was more than a little sore. Fractured, perhaps.
The crowd that had gathered around him after the Dumpster was removed seemed shocked by not only his shoulder popping, but the fact that he was coherent and on foot. He was in pain, of course, from his hip and his leg and his back, but it was superficial pain. Light damage. Nothing like what the
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