| |
Michael dropped to the ground as the handlebar for the zip line swung through the air where his head had been. His side hit earth first, and he barrel-rolled from his back to his stomach. Dirt flew in his face as he pushed himself up, the metal instrument displacing the topsoil only a hairline from his hand. He scrambled to his feet and turned to face Dylan, squaring off with his hands before remembering the stick knife he’d put in his back pocket. Reaching for it, his hand found empty space. He glanced about the underbrush and saw the barbaric weapon inches from Dylan’s feet.
Dylan didn’t seem to notice it. Blood darkened the skin under his nostrils and outlined his teeth. One hand hung by his side, clutching the handlebar, while the other hugged his torso just under his ribs.
“Stay... back,” he said through wheezes, his voice barely more than a whisper. He coughed, and blood ran like drool from the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe... you pushed me.”
Seeing Dylan struggling to stand, to even breathe, made his anger leak away, replaced by grief and something akin to shock at what he’d done. “Dylan, you’re hurt bad. Put the bar down, and we’ll get you help.”
Dylan laughed at that, but only before the laughter brought about a coughing fit and more blood from his mouth. His eyelids fluttered, and he bent over. “No way, man... I... I thought we were... friends.”
“Give it up, already.” Michael snarled, unsure if his anger was toward Dylan or himself. He kept his hands out in front of him. “I checked your phone. Are you going to tell me your own father brainwashed you? Why’d you have to be part of it, Dylan? Is he really your father? I don’t even know the jerk.”
“My father... called me?” Dylan’s eyes rolled up. He blinked away tears. “Dad... He can be a real dick sometimes, but... I guess you already know that. Always talking about some sort of... rite of passage, vision quest thing. Taking this Native American thing way too seriously. Before that was some Liberian tribal ritual. Made me eat—”
Michael didn’t think Dylan’s face could get any paler, but just then, it blanched as if some distant memory had scared the rest of his life out of him. He leaned over, using the zipline grip line as a cane for support. His voice softer, seemingly talking more to himself than Michael, he said, “He thinks... I’m too soft.” He raised his hand to his face and studied it, but Michael was unsure of what he saw there. “Maybe I am.”
“I thought he wanted to use me.” Michael began to circle as Dylan did, the latter still making no effort to raise his weapon.
“Does he? I... I don’t know. Stay back!” Dylan feinted to his right, causing Michael to jump, but the braced-faced boy made no move to attack. “I think... he’s run out of reasons to keep me around.”
“Come on, man.” Michael stepped to his left, sneaking a glance down at the stick knife, which was almost within reach. He hoped he wouldn’t need it, but he didn’t know if Dylan was severely hurt or just playing up his injuries, truly ignorant of his father’s games or playing one of his own. “You can stop this, then. He doesn’t care about you. He’s just using you or trying to like he is me, Sam, that doctor lady, all those masked patients. We’re all just pieces in his game. Put the bar down, and we’ll get you help. Maybe we could even figure out a way to still be friends.”
A sad smile crept over his face. “Ishmael... floats alone... my friend. Maybe... you’re Starbuck.” The bar fell from his hand. “I’m sorry, Michael.” Then, he, too, fell.
Michael hurried to his side. He looked at Dylan’s hand, still clutched over a wound spouting dark blood, the tip of a branch poking through his fingers. He tried to pull it out, but between his weakened condition and his hands repeatedly slipping on the blood everywhere, he soon gave up.
Face white as death, Dylan peered up at Michael. He smiled, a smile that was warm and friendly and reminiscent of the first one he’d given Michael—the smile of a friend. “I told—” He coughed several times, his eyelids fluttering once more as he began to sway. “I told you... you were... a badass.”
“Get up!” Michael cried. “The hospital, it’s only a short walk—”
Dylan’s head swiveled slowly to the side, and Michael understood what Dylan must have already known. He was dying. He crouched, tried to pull his friend to his feet, which only spurred more coughing, then sat beside him. Lying there on the cold dirt, his chest expanding and contracting, Dylan seemed to be at peace. Michael’s own mind was still too frantic to figure out how to help his friend or even to know whether he should.
“Dylan, please. I have to know.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Were you for real?”
He looked into Dylan’s eyes and saw that if the boy had had any answers to give, they would no longer be forthcoming.