MR. ALLEN DROPS RUSS, WES, AND ME off at the emergency room and then goes to park his car. The automatic sliding doors close behind us and I throw up in the waiting-room trash can.

It feels like I’m turning inside out.

When I come up for air, half the room is looking at me. There’s maybe twenty or so sick, weary people sitting in chairs, and one homeless man pacing at the far end of the room, yelling, “Whenever I get help, I’m gonna be thankful! Whenever I get help, I’m gonna be thankful!” The other half is watching a show about sharks on the TV that hangs in the corner. I glance up just in time to see the massive jaws of a great white clamp down on a sea lion.

Russ puts his hand on my back and says, “You all right?”

I puke again and just look up at my teammates when I finish.

I don’t know how I am.

“Listen,” Wes says, “you’re going to have to lie and say you’re family, or they won’t let you in. I know, because when my sister had her baby her friends tried to come in during the birth, and the hospital people said only immediate family could visit. So tell them you’re Rod. They’re probably not going to let Russ and me in, so you have to get yourself together.”

Wes’s hand is on my back now too. He says, “You need to be strong for Erin. Be a man. Okay?”

I nod because I’m supposed to, but I feel like I’m going to throw up again.

At the main information desk, Wes tells the woman that I’m Erin’s brother and, just like he predicted, he and Russ are made to stay in the waiting room, while I’m led to what the check-in person calls the trauma center.

I stand in the doorway for a few seconds before I enter Erin’s room.

It’s like a nightmare.

Her left leg is in a soft cast and there’s a plastic neck brace holding her chin in a very rigid position.

Her right arm’s all wrapped up.

There are red bandages on her face that were once white.

The skin around her eyes is purple and black.

Her face is really puffy and shiny; it looks like someone smeared Vaseline under her eyes.

Mrs. Quinn’s sitting next to the bed, which has wheels on it, so maybe it’s not a bed. I don’t know.

They’re holding hands.

Erin’s moaning and her cheeks are wet with tears.

“I’ll leave you alone with your family,” the nurse says.

I stand frozen for a long time, just watching, wondering if this can be real.

Erin looks ruined.

Mrs. Quinn’s hair is all frizzy and wild and her eyes look small and scared. She’s staring at the window even though the blinds have been pulled. Neither Erin nor her mother notices me at first.

I walk around to the far side of the bed and take Erin’s other hand in mine. She doesn’t squeeze.

When we make eye contact, it doesn’t even look like her, because of the swelling, but I recognize the shamrock-green eyes.

She starts talking really quickly. “Finley, my leg’s shattered. I’m never gonna play basketball again—ever. It’s over. That’s it. My season’s ruined. My basketball career is over. No chance for a college scholarship now. When they hit me, they knew it. They saw my face. I flew up onto the hood of their car. I was thrown onto the street—and they just left me there like I was a dead animal. It seemed like they even sped up when—But that can’t be true, right? Who would do something like that? And now I can’t play basketball. What am I going to do about college? How are we going to get out of Bellmont now? I should have made my decision and committed earlier. How could they leave me there? I don’t want you to see me like this, Finley. I must look so ugly. Maybe you should leave. No, don’t leave. And the paramedics cut through my brand-new sports bra too—I just got it two days ago—and that bra cost a lot of money, and—”

“Shhh,” Mrs. Quinn says. “You’re in shock, honey. You’ll be playing basketball in no time. We’ll get you a new sports bra. It’s going to be okay.”

So many thoughts are running through my head, but I can’t seem to make sense of any of them.

“It hurts, Finley. It hurts so much. I can’t move my leg.”

When Erin starts to sob, she looks like a little kid who’s been tortured to the point of exhaustion. I can see the pain tunneling its way through her face and body.

It hurts for her to even cry.

I want to tell her it’ll be okay—that she’ll be playing ball again soon.

I want to ask her how she got hit—what happened?

Will she ever be able to walk again, let alone play basketball?

I look to Erin’s mom for help.

“She can’t have painkillers until they rule out any possible head injuries. They’re going to scan her brain soon, and then—once they rule out brain damage—they’ll give her drugs,” Mrs. Quinn says. “You just have to hold on a little longer, Erin.”

“What about her leg?” I ask. “What did the doctor say about that?”

When Mrs. Quinn doesn’t answer my question, I study her face. She looks very scared herself. Suddenly, I understand that it’s probably worse than I initially thought.

“Finley,” Erin says.

Her eyes are red, but the green shines even now—even amid all the swelling and bruising—maybe even more so.

“Will you please be my boyfriend again?” she says. “I need you to be my boyfriend now. I’m scared. I’m really scared. Please be my boyfriend again. I can’t go through this alone. Please. Please.”

I nod.

Of course I will.

“I need you to say it,” she says, and her voice sounds tiny and childlike and so unlike Erin that I really start to worry.

“I’m your boyfriend again now,” I say.

“Then talk to me. Tell me something else,” she says.

“Like what?”

“Anything to take my mind off the pain.”

“I just threw up before I came in here.”

“Really? Are you okay?”

“Wes and Russ are in the lobby. Boy21 made us lie on his bedroom floor in the dark and listen to this jazz CD about using music to travel through outer space and then I was confused and suddenly I’m at the hospital and I was so worried about you that I just threw up. I puked twice. I puked yellow bile even.”

“Very romantic. You really know how to make a girl feel special, Finley,” she says, which makes me feel good because she smiles for a second. “I’ve missed you. Look what I have to do to get your attention.”

She tries to laugh, but the attempt hurts her and she starts crying again.

I’m afraid that Erin might die, because she looks that bad. “It’s going to be okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s really not going to be okay, Finley.” Erin tries to laugh, but only starts to cry harder.

Her mom strokes her forehead and says, “Shhh. It is okay. Everything’s fine.”

Because I don’t know what else to do, I start to pet Erin’s hand like it’s a cat or something. After a minute or so, she yells, “Just everyone stop touching me—okay?”

Mrs. Quinn flinches.

I try to make eye contact with Erin, but she’s staring fiercely at the ceiling; I can tell that she doesn’t want to look at me all of a sudden and that I should just be quiet.

We wait around silently for a long time, until they take Erin into a room where they will scan her brain.

Mrs. Quinn’s allowed to accompany her, but a nurse tells me to stay behind.

Being alone in a hospital freaks me out so I return to the ER waiting room to see if Wes and Russ are still there.

I find them with Mr. Allen, watching a show about snakes. On the hanging TV a snake with a head as big as a football is in the process of swallowing what looks like a dog, although I can only see the hind legs sticking out of the snake’s mouth. I wonder why they play these types of shows in the ER waiting room, where people are already feeling depressed about hurt loved ones. Couldn’t they find more lighthearted programming?

Mr. Allen, Wes, and Russ stand when they see me. Russ is no longer wearing his cape.

“How’s Erin?” Mr. Allen says.

I shake my head and say, “Not good.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Russ says.

“Her leg’s shattered and she has bruises all over her face. They’re scanning her brain for damage now. She was rambling for a time and then she got really angry and started yelling at me like I did something wrong, when all I was doing was holding her hand.”

“The girl’s in shock,” Mr. Allen says. “Won’t last. She’ll be back to normal soon.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Wes says. “Damn.”

Boy21 says nothing.

I look up and the snake has finished swallowing. Its midsection is now the shape and size of the dog; it almost looks fake.

“I’m gonna stay here,” I say. “You guys can leave. Thanks for waiting.”

“You sure?” Wes says.

“Yeah. I can catch a ride home with the Quinns if I need to.”

“Tell Erin we’re pulling for her,” Russ says.

“Yeah,” Wes says, “please do.”

“We’ll pray for her tonight,” Mr. Allen says.

“Thanks.” I go back to the trauma center, but Erin and her mom are still in the brain-scanner room.

Alone in the hospital, I think about how fragile people are, how anyone can disappear in a second and be gone forever—how close I’ve come to losing Erin—and I start to remember things I don’t want to remember, so I bite down on the triangle of skin between my left thumb and forefinger until it hurts enough to stop my brain from dredging up any of the garbage that sits at the bottom of my memory.

When Erin’s wheeled back into the room, she has an IV drip in her arm and is semiconscious.

“Her brain’s okay,” Mrs. Quinn says. “She’s on morphine now.”

I pull up a chair and hold Erin’s hand.

“I’m your boyfriend again,” I tell her.

“That’s good,” she says, and then smiles once before she closes her eyes.