The Ram by Erica Crockett

doing right now. I’ve got to get to work on bagging her. And I can’t really do that from my house, now can I?”
    “It was a good thing you never had to argue a case in court. I’m going to hang up on you. Seriously.”
    Riley closes his eyes and grits his teeth. He only wants one thing to go his way. And he believes this one thing is Nell. Whether Walker helps him is his choice. But he won’t beg his friend.
    “Fine. Go to your boring meeting. I’m going to lie down and watch tennis or something.”
    He can hear the way Walker’s voice lightens. “Good choice. Stay off your feet so you can heal, brother. I’ll check up with you later.”
    But when Riley tosses his phone on the couch, he doesn’t let his body go with it. He doesn’t want to rest. He’s restless.
    He makes his way sans crutches to a storage closet near the door to his garage. He uses his hands against the plastered walls to hop his way there and pulls a small plastic tote down from a shelf inside the closet. He makes sure his feet are out of the way and then he lets the bin drop to the floor instead of gently placing it down. Riley steadies himself with one arm on his taupe-colored wall and flips the lid off with his other hand.
    The bin is full of old track trophies, yearbooks from high school, pictures paper-clipped together in small stacks. He rummages around until he produces a well-used footbag, actual Hacky Sack brand. It’s red, yellow and green, the colors he associates with Rastafarians, but scuffed with dirt and its pigmentation muted from use and years. The weaving is hemp and the inside is full of little beans. It gives a bit in his clenched fist.
    He leaves the tote open, memorabilia scattered around on the floor and jumps his way to his living room and the couch where he tossed his phone. He looks at his abandoned crutches pitched against his entertainment center and can’t stand the thought of watching tennis players volley and sprint around a court while he’s bereft of half his toes. He hops over to his coat closet and pulls a right running shoe and a left snow boot out from a shoe rack.
    Sitting on his couch, he squishes the hard footbag in his hands, feels the weight of the old toy he used to kick around with his friends during lulls at track meets. It might be too heavy for the purpose he has in mind, but he’s anxious to see if it will work.
    Tucking the bag down into the toe of the snow boot, he maneuvers the beans around until it’s flush against the boot’s edge. He puts the running shoe on his right foot, ties up the laces. Then he puts his left foot, freshly bandaged with new gauze, into the snow boot.
    He lucks out. His wound doesn’t completely ram into the bag, but it does touch at all the points where his toes used to be. He grimaces in pain but drops the weight of his heel in the boot anyway. He screams out, balls his fists and smacks the cushions of the couch.
    Riley stands then, again without his crutches, and steps only on the heel of his left foot to get to his front door. Lightning shots of agony race up his body, but he refuses to take off the boot and tend to his injury. The afternoon greets him; the sky is overcast and the wind smells of impending rain.
    He makes it to the end of his driveway at a steady gimp, putting most of his weight on his right foot and skipping a little when his left needs to touch the ground.
    There, at the street gutter clogged with patches of last fall’s leaves, Riley steps off onto the street and starts to run.
    And five steps later, he’s falling, his movements unsustainable, his right foot cramping, his left pulsating with hurt. He catches himself with his palms, swearing as he scuffs his hands on the rough landing. He heaves in deep breaths on all four limbs, his back arching like a stretching housecat.
    Riley watches a pill bug with its gray armor traverse the small bumps in the asphalt. A tear escapes one of his eyes and splashes down next to the insect. The impact