| |
Levi
Levi couldn’t decide which was his most pressing concern. He was incredibly thirsty. His pants and the bottom of his shirt were soaking wet, and he was very cold. Whether or not this cold was dangerous, he didn’t know, but it sure was uncomfortable. He hadn’t lost feeling in any part of his body, so he didn’t think he was in danger of frostbite or of losing any limbs. It was only November, but it was Maine. He tried to guess the temperature, but without his phone, didn’t have a clue. It could be fifty degrees out. It could be twenty. He thought twenty was significantly more dangerous than fifty. He hoped his friends had lived through the night and gone for help, and he hoped that help was on the way.
Because something was throwing a giant dark cloud over both his thirst and his cold, and that something was the pain of his smashed ankle. It shot up through his leg and past his knee. Sometimes he swore he could feel it in his fingertips. He’d managed to drag himself over to the wall and leaned against it. This hadn’t increased his comfort any, but it had given him more of a sense of control. Now he could see the entire basement, including the rickety, mostly-collapsed stairway.
There was no railing, and most of the steps were missing entirely. A skilled gymnast might be able to climb them, but he sure couldn’t, not in his condition. And even if by some miracle he did make it to the top of the steps, the floor all the way around the stairway had caved in.
And would he even be better off on the first floor? Even if he could manage it, then what? It wasn’t like he could walk back to the road on that ankle. And he knew he couldn’t hop that far. And even if he managed that, even if he somehow managed to climb out of the basement and get to the road, then what? They were in the middle of nowhere. He, he corrected himself. He was in the middle of nowhere. There was no they anymore.
Better to just sit and wait for the ambulance. His mother would be looking for him by now. She would ask Shane, and Shane would tell her where he was.
It occurred to him to pray. He’d never been the religious type, but what did he have to lose? No one would ever know. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, but no words came. Finally, he managed, “Help me.” He said it aloud, but the weakness of his own voice scared him. Why did he sound so feeble? He reevaluated his head wound. Maybe it was worse than he thought. It did hurt an awful lot, and he was dizzy, but both of those feelings were overpowered by the pain in his ankle and the cold. He looked toward the window, where a steady trickle of rain was coming in. That water wasn’t brown. If he could get to that water, maybe it would be worth it.
It was a long way away, but what else did he have to do? Might as well have a goal, something to keep him busy. He reached out and put his hand on the cold floor a few feet away from his butt. Why couldn’t this basement have a cement floor instead of a dirt one? Wouldn’t that make this a less sloppy affair? Then again, hitting his head on cement might have killed him. He put his weight on his hand and tried to drag his butt across the floor.
A bomb of pain went off in his leg, and he cried out at the surprise and power of it. He stopped moving and braced himself for more, but the explosion settled back into the same steady pain he’d felt before he’d started to move. He looked back the way he’d come: he’d moved about three inches.
It wasn’t worth it. He’d rather stay thirsty. He leaned his head back against the cool cement wall, and this time, when the tears came, he didn’t fight them. They came out of the corners of his eyes and ran down his cold cheeks—and he relished their warmth.
