SEVEN

Abe thought we should run. “Just to be safe.”

I said no, we should stick to walking. Running attracted attention. It was the worst thing we could do.

Miriam didn’t care what we did as long as she could take off her shoes first. She leaned against a mailbox. “I already have a blister,” she said. “Why don’t we just hold our ground? If you tell them no comment, what can they do?”

I wished it were that easy. (It irritated me that she’d ask this.)

To them, “No comment” was just the first thing I said before they took my picture. “No comment” was just a line; it was part of a script or a dance. It was the challenge to get me to say more. “No comment” was pretty much the same as saying, “On your mark, get set, go. Exploit me.”

Miriam was naïve. Being the subject of a story was an invasion of privacy. It was not flattering, not fun, not exciting. It never ended with “No comment.”

For a few steps, Abe turned around and walked backward. He stared at the street behind us.

I had a bad feeling about this. “Where are they?” I asked. “Do you see them? Tell me the truth.”

“They’re two blocks back. I told you we should have run.” I turned around and looked. That was a huge mistake. I saw them, and they also saw me.

“Janine! We’d like to talk to you.”

“Janine, turn around.”

“Janine, just one moment. This isn’t just about you.”

Now we ran. Abe first, then me, then Miriam. We passed storefronts and a kid on a skateboard, and Abe practically plowed into a couple of people from my history class.

We didn’t stop. Miriam threw her shoes like grenades. Now four strides ahead, Abe pointed to the big white church just across the street. It wasn’t our turn to walk, but he leaped into the intersection anyway. I heard him say, “Come on, J. We can make it.”

But I stopped. Because at the same time, there was a car.

In reality, the whole thing probably took three seconds. But like all disasters, it felt like it went on for hours. The problem was, there was nothing I could do to stop it.

One.

Miriam came from behind me and yanked me back. We hit the ground hard, and brakes squealed. Abe looked at me and for that one long second, we both knew what was about to happen. In the background, the church’s electronic bulletin board announced the schedule. Services are held every Saturday and Sunday. All are welcome.

That blinked in my eyes.

Two.

Glass shattered. People screamed. Abe took flight like an angel, his arms out, his legs straight. When he landed, he made one sound.

Thud.

Three.

For one moment, one endless moment, there was silence, like a vacuum. It was the same kind of silence I heard just after the bomb went off, when I wasn’t sure if I was alive or dead. This kind of silence made time stop.

It made me feel like I was walking through water.

And I couldn’t speak.

Just like before, I was suffocating. I was alone. My hands curled up and sent sharp pains to my neck and head. But this was not rubble, and it wasn’t Jerusalem either. I was not fighting for my life.

This was Abe.

He was in the middle of the road.

Miriam called 911. “Our friend was hit by a car. In front of the white church. No I don’t know if he’s breathing. I don’t know if he’s got a pulse.”

Somehow I stood up, and my legs worked. Somehow I was able to walk into the street, and kneel at his side, and check his pulse and his breath, and even though it sounded weak, it was definitely there. I shouted, “Abe. Can you hear me?” There was blood pooling under his head. His eyes didn’t look like he saw me. I knew I shouldn’t move him, but his head was bleeding like crazy. Somehow I remembered to press my hands against the wet, hot wound.

And wait.

I listened for the sirens. They seemed too far away. I looked up at the clouds. A camera captured the moment. Click, click, click, click, click.

I didn’t care how many pictures they took. This was Abe. I begged him, “Don’t die.” Click. “Please, Abe. I know you can make it.” Click. “You cannot die right here in the middle of Marsden Avenue.”

Click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click.

There were more people now, and they all shouted and cried and gave me advice at once. I focused on Abe, on his blood and his breath. I felt Miriam standing near. I told him, “We have tickets to three concerts. And I need you to help me with chem. I thought we were going to go somewhere crazy this summer.”

“Stay calm, Janine. Help is on the way.”

I wondered if I was going insane. That sounded like my mother—here—in this crowd—telling me all the things she said ten years ago. I looked around, but of course, she wasn’t in the crowd. Only when I looked at Abe could I hear her:

“You can do this, baby.”

“You are not alone.”

“Hang on, Janine. You have a holy soul.”

I understood I was imagining this, but it was nice. It felt good. Like there was hope. For a moment, I let myself smile. Click. Because my mother was here, I sincerely believed that Abe was going to make it.

As the ambulance pulled up to the scene, a woman shouted, “That’s Janine Collins—the Soul Survivor. We’re witnessing a miracle. Look at him. She’s healing him with her hands.”

The medics didn’t care. They ran toward us and pushed me away. I fell on the ground, on my knees, onto my hands. I listened for my mother to tell me what to do next, but she was gone. All I heard were the medics. They said, “He’s in trouble.”

Click, click, click

The cameras were all around me. A Nikon D4—the camera of choice for many photojournalists—is capable of shooting eleven frames per second. (After having enough of them shoved in my face, I looked it up.) If these guys had held their fingers to the shutter, they’d have close to a thousand frames by now.

Of me. And Abe. He wasn’t going to die. Not if I could help it. This was not his fifteen minutes, I promised myself.

I looked up at the clouds and bargained: If he gets better, I will work harder. I will be nicer. I’ll help Miriam with her farm. If Abe will just get through this, I will try and be a better person, too. I will do interviews. I’ll talk to Dave. I’ll face every single one of my fears.

Click. Click. Click.

Click, click, click, click, click.