54

THE PAST TWO Saturdays have been epic—first Trivia Quest, then Comic Fest. But I’m super happy that this Saturday is back to being a normal one. A calm one. A lazy one. A hang-out-at-home-and-vegetate-into-a-stupor Saturday.

Gramps is parked in his recliner, watching a show about doomsday preppers. They’re these people who think the world’s ending, so they stock up on ammo and make all these elaborate warlike preparations.

I can only handle watching it for a few minutes. “This is awful!” I tell Gramps. “I mean, there’s a million ways the world could end. How are they gonna prepare for all those possibilities? Canned goods and firearms? I’m having a panic attack. Seriously, it’s worse than sitting through a Principal Coffin safety assembly.”

He says, “I tell you, Stanley, I been in the war, you know. The world can get crazy out there. People cope in different ways.”

That’s true. People do cope in different ways. Sometimes they desperately prepare, like Principal Coffin. Or they get kinda bitter and grumpy, like Gramps. Or they get mad, like Cal. Or they tune it out with work, like Mom. Or they find a good reason to leave, like Dad.

And then, there are much worse ways to cope. Drugs and drink and whatnot.

My way, and Doc’s way, and Joon’s way, is to escape into comics. Not the worst coping skill, truly, when you think of some of those alternatives.

Gramps lets out a huge belch of lunchtime hot dog. Ugh. Albert Einstein lunges into his lap and sniffs, making Gramps wave his arms and legs around wildly. “Dang dog! Get him the heck out of here!”

I grab Albert Einstein by the collar and try to wrestle him up with me to my room to do homework, but he slips back down to stay with Gramps. Fine.

Ten minutes later, there’s some sort of wild commotion with Gramps shouting again. He’s always yelling at the TV, so at first, I ignore it. But then there’s a shout so sharp and strange I come running.

Mom, Cal, and I all get to the living room at about the same time.

Gramps is moaning on the floor by his chair, while Albert Einstein whines at him. “Stupid fool of a dog jumped right in front of me when I was getting up. Dang it, I think I dislocated my bum shoulder again!”

Uh-oh.

“Oh, Dad!” Mom cries out. “Not again! Stanley, get the ice pack.” Meanwhile, she runs for the first aid kit. She bandages Gramps’s arm to his body to keep it from moving around. She’s gotten good at this—he’s dislocated it before.

“Let’s get you to the hospital for an X-ray,” she says. “Boys? Hold down the fort! Fend for yourselves for dinner if we’re not home!”

As Mom helps a wincing Gramps to the car, she’s still shouting directions back at us. “Cal, find yourself another ride to football practice! Stanley, fold the laundry. And order a pizza or something. Lord knows how long we’ll be. Oh my gosh, wait a sec, let me help you with that seat belt, Dad.”

“Fend for ourselves,” Calvin mutters. “What else do we ever do around here?”

“Aren’t you worried about Gramps?” I ask.

“Of course I am, stupid.” Cal opens the fridge and stares gloomily at the empty shelves. “But it’s not the first time he popped that shoulder out. He’ll live.”

I leave him in the kitchen and go to my room. Albert Einstein follows me, head down, his toenails click-clicking obediently on the stairs, like he knows he did something bad.

I’m working on some John Lockdown comics to show Doc. Not the drawings so much as the story lines. I want to be in on the action when the Master tells Doc he’ll publish John Lockdown for real.

Also, Principal Coffin wants the school paper to run a John Lockdown comic strip. She’s totally bought into the idea—she thinks “our school superhero could offer kids helpful safety tips of what to do in a crisis!”

So I’m scribbling away when I notice Calvin clomping around in the hall.

“Don’t you have football practice?”

“Not today,” he grunts.

I hear him go into Mom’s room, which is a little weird—then downstairs to the kitchen. A minute later, the back door slams.

I’m just starting to really get into this John Lockdown story line when a loud cracking noise comes from the backyard.

Albert Einstein hurls himself downstairs like a rocket, toenails scratching and slipping, barking like crazy.

Above the barking comes this strange howl. At first I think: a coyote! But then the howl turns into a human scream.

My brother’s scream.

I fly downstairs and out the back door. “Cal?” I yell, scanning the yard.

The chickens are flustered, flapping around in their coop.

I spot Cal in the far back corner of our yard, where it slopes down to the canyon. I gasp when I see what he’s holding. So that’s what he was doing, banging around up in Mom’s room. He was searching for that rifle!

And apparently, he found it.

He sways in place. Then he drops.

I run, skidding in the rocks and sand, and stop at the edge of the slope.

Cal is sitting on the ground now. As I get closer, I see some blood oozing out of his sneaker. Not some. A lot of blood.

My heart starts pounding full force. Red Alerts pang through me at top speed and pressure—my stomach’s a pit of writhing snakes—oh no—oh no—

—But somehow, I’m not sinking to the ground like Cal. No. Instead, I’m in a hyper state of super-alertness. “Don’t move!” I shout. “I’m going to . . .”

I stop and think.

I’m going to . . . what?

Calvin’s eyes roll around in his head. He lies all the way down, pale as a ghost.

I’d give anything right now to see John Lockdown streaking through the air toward us, ready to take charge. John Lockdown, or anyone—Wonder Woman, Batman, X-Men, Avengers, Captain America, Agent Carter, Iron Man—heck, I’ll take Mighty Mouse.

But no one’s coming to the rescue. There’s only me.

Whipping off my T-shirt, I wrap it around his bloody foot, and press. Compression. That’s the word. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Then, looking around, I see a plastic bucket by the chicken coop—I pull it over and prop Cal’s leg up. Somehow, in the back of my brain, from one of Principal Coffin’s assemblies before I started going to my Ready Room, I remember you’re supposed to raise the wounded part up.

It’s been maybe thirty seconds, and my T-shirt, wrapped around his foot, is already soaked through. The blood looks like the red that seeps from packages of raw steak.

Cal sits up again, trying to peel away the bloody shirt and look. “No! Just hold it tight and don’t move!” I command him in a deep voice that doesn’t even sound like me.

I run inside and call 911. Then I race next door, but Dr. Silverberg’s not home. I race back to Cal with a stack of kitchen towels. I press down hard on the wound. Compression. It’s bleeding like crazy.

“Lie back!” I tell Cal as he scrambles to sit. “Stay down on the grass and breathe. Deep, from your stomach. In, out, from your belly. Breathe slowly. What’s your favorite color?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, before he passes out.