Standing By

Fears

(Tim)

"Whataya mean, Scott forgot the coffee?" I groaned to Rob. "He was supposed to get us all regular coffees! He said he would!"

"I dunno." Rob let out an exasperated breath, staring at his phone screen. He started typing out a return text, bouncing slightly as we turned a corner. Chance's head, resting lightly on the window, jostled and he put a hand up to cushion it.

I started scouting the area for coffee joints. "Gen, there a Starbucks or something nearby? We got to have coffee here."

"There's one about two blocks away," she said.

"Pleeeaaase?" Rob and I begged in unison. Chance seemed to have passed the point that coffee could have helped him.

"Sure thing," she said agreeably. She put her blinker on to chance lanes and let two cars pass before she got her chance. She was three-fourths of the way in her turn when some idiot came flying out of a restaurant parking lot. Before any one of us could do a thing, it had plowed into Gen's back end and the car pitched forward. Chance jerked his head up just as Rob's door got rammed in—and Chance's and mine flew open. Propelled forward, I grasped at the door frame, but my grip slipped and I felt myself fall out, the concrete, the blacktop, hurtling forward faster than I could blink, faster than I could scream. Or was I flying towards it? I wasn't sure. I threw my arms out to protect myself, seeing traffic whizzing by out of the corner of my eye, each car perilously close to me, swerving at the very last millisecond; I could feel the air rush by, the rumbling of traffic a steady palpable hum. Fuck—fuck, I was going to be killed here in LA, a million miles away from home. There was no way I wasn't going to be hit. I landed hard on my arm and shoulder, the hot blacktop burning my outstretched hand, scraping my palm. Then I felt the shearing sharp pain as it shot all the way up my arm. I screamed as my arm gave out on me, my elbow bending in a way no elbow ever should. I collapsed onto the concrete, still screaming as I felt the snap of arm bones breaking, each fracture causing an interminable amount of pain. I felt my shoulder bones shatter, my arm going limp at my side, useless. I couldn't even move it. I let my face smash into the pavement, nothing I could do to prevent it with my arm all broken. I spiderweb of pain exploded in my head as more bones, crucial facial bones, fractured upon impact. I couldn't even scream; my jaw wouldn't move. All I could do was cry. From my very low vantage point, I could see shadows flood my field of vision, the sounds of frantic horns and traffic rushing by filled my ears. Shit—cars—cars—oh my God. My heart seemed to pound as a truck actually seemed to speed up, my breath catching in my throat as a hellbent delivery truck hurtled at me, inches from my head... but all I could do was cry, helpless, on the road. Nothing I could do. My terribly broken arm allowed for no moment, no crawling potential; my legs seemingly useless. Oh my God. The black tires, the rubber on the tread on the tires that were upon me. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that there would at least be some semblance of me in my body for my mother and my family, to deal with. Please, just be quick. I didn't want a long drawn-out death. Just flatten my skull and let it just be a quick flick of a curtain on my life.

I gasped painstakingly when, without warning, someone reached under me, scooping me up like a baby, cradling me in strong arms. Had it happened? Was I—dead? I blinked hazy eyes at the person who was holding me tightly to his chest.

"Shh, it's OK, I gotcha," Chance whispered, his own face riddled with tears. "You're gonna be OK, Tim. They can fix broken arms. Surgery. They can put you back together. I—"

He stumbled forward as the delivery truck that had been milliseconds from killing me rammed into Chance, knocking him square in the hip. I went flying onto the shoulder; he fell straight over, directly in front of the truck's tires. It rolled forward, him now in a crumbled heap, him now in imminent danger. It plowed into him with a sickening crunch, his head immediately snapping backwards and hitting the pavement loudly enough that I could hear it over the roaring of the traffic. Blood, a seemingly endless supply, came pouring out of him—his face, the back of his head, arms, shoulders. Everywhere. Chance's blood was all over the driving lane, rolling towards the shoulder, towards me.