Trapped! by Peg Kehret

the gravel, then groaned when the swift motion sent a sharp stab of pain up to his hip. Gingerly, he felt the wound again; he supposed he would need stitches. Maybe even surgery. He’d have to drive himself to the hospital emergency room and get help.
    Bick hated doctors! He punched his fist down on the hood of the truck. There would be endless paperwork, and it would probably cost him an arm and a leg, but he couldn’t leave a gunshot wound untreated and risk infection.
    He wasn’t going to admit that a cat had pulled the trigger, though. He’d tell the doctor that the gun had gone off accidentally as he was putting it in his holster. He’d say the wound was self-inflicted. The doc might laugh at him for that, but not as hard as he’d laugh if Bick admitted he’d been shot by a cat. He wouldn’t tell anyone, not even his brother, what had really happened. If he did, he’d never hear the end of it.
    Bick threw the handgun on the floor of the truck andgot behind the wheel. He wished he had an automatic transmission; that leg was going to kill him every time he let the clutch in or out. Bick gritted his teeth, pushed in on the clutch, and started the engine, cursing the cat as he did.
    Bick shifted into gear and steered with one hand, keeping his left hand pressed against the bloodstain on his thigh, to try to stanch the bleeding. The leg throbbed now, and Bick pushed harder on the gas pedal, crossing the center line as he went around the first curve.
    A horn blasted. Bick tensed and swerved back to the right. There was never any traffic up here, and the sudden noise startled him. The horn honked again as Bick sped past, and he heard someone yell, “Stop!”
    Was it that same kid, the one who had stolen his pig? The one with the cat? Bick couldn’t tell and he sure as heck wasn’t going to stop to find out. What would that kid be doing up here, anyway? He couldn’t be looking for his cat because nobody had seen Bick drive off with it.
    He winced as the pain shot up his leg again. He wished now that he’d shoved the cat out of the truck and left him next to the pigpen instead of driving away with him. But how was he to know that the cat was capable of causing so much trouble?
    Bick removed his hand from his thigh and gingerly touched his face. He could tell that the places where thecat had scratched him were beginning to scab over, but both cheeks still stung and he’d probably have scars.
    Muttering under his breath about what he would do to that cat if he ever saw him again, Bick drove past Hilltop, past Valley View Estates, and down the hill toward the outskirts of Seattle. He followed the blue hospital signs until he reached the closest hospital. Leaving his truck across the street, Bick limped in the emergency entrance.
    “I need to see a doctor,” he told the admitting clerk. “I accidentally shot myself in the leg.”
    “How bad is it?” the clerk asked. “Do you need help right away?”
    “I ain’t waiting till tomorrow, if that’s what you mean,” Bick said.
    “How did you get here?”
    “I drove.”
    The clerk nodded. “If you drove unassisted, it’s not a critical emergency,” she said. “Please sit here and fill out these forms.” She handed Bick a clipboard that had several pieces of paper attached.
    “No need for a lot of paperwork,” Bick said. “I don’t have insurance.”
    “I need the information anyway.”
    Bick hesitated. For a minute he considered walking out the door and going home, but his leg hurt too much and he was worried about blood poisoning or even gangrene.He sat down and began filling in the blanks, making things up as he went.
    Name: Brock Thorsen. Social security number: don’t have it with me. Bick used his brother’s address and phone number, changing one digit of each. For employer, he wrote “self-employed farmer.” He continued down the page, inventing whatever information he needed. By the time the hospital figured out that he’d made it all up, his