The sound Flinch made when he hit was hardly more than a dull thump, muffled by the snow. But it jolted through me from my groin straight up to my guts.
We rushed over.
Flinch was sprawled on the ground. Oh man—he looked like a football player who’d just been hit so hard you knew he wasn’t getting up. I knelt next to him, but I had no idea what to do.
Torchie reached out and touched Flinch’s shoulder. “Flinch. Hey. You okay?”
There was a faint sound. Crazy as the thought was, it reminded me of a chicken clucking. I listened more closely and realized it was Flinch, swearing quietly, saying the same word over and over.
“Flinch?” I asked.
He turned his head toward me. “Hurts …”
“Don’t move,” Torchie told him.
Flinch shook his head. “Freezing …” He reached out with his left hand. I grabbed it and held still, letting him raise himself. I was afraid I’d hurt him if I pulled. Flinch staggered to his feet, pieces of the broken trophy falling from his belt. His right arm dangled at his side, the hand twisted at an angle I didn’t want to think about.
I looked up at the window. “We’ve got to get you taken care of.”
“Don’t want you in trouble …” Flinch said, gritting out the words through what must have been a terrible amount of pain. “They find out … no more trips …”
“Don’t worry about it.” I helped him walk around the building. Torchie went to grab the ladder, then caught up with us.
Trash tried to open the front door. It was locked. There was no way we could get in without waking somebody.
“We have to knock,” I said.
Trash shook his head. He stood there for a moment with his fists clenched. I heard a soft click. Then Trash reached up again and opened the door.
We got Flinch inside and up to the second floor. “Lie here,” I told him. “I’ll say you fell down the steps going to the bathroom. The rest of you get back upstairs.”
Flinch nodded, then gasped something.
“What?” I asked, leaning closer to him.
“Snow,” he said, pointing to my pants.
I brushed myself off, then got as much snow off Flinch as I could without hurting him. I was about to go for help when Flinch spoke again.
“Jackets,” he said.
“What?” I asked. Then I realized what he meant. I took off my jacket, then helped him with his. As careful as I was, I knew I hurt him when I slipped his right arm out of the sleeve. I tossed the jackets up toward the top of the steps. Then I rushed to see who had night duty.
It was Mr. Briggs. Before he could start thinking I’d come by for company, counseling, or a pleasant conversation, I told him, “Flinch fell down the stairs.”
As soon as Mr. Briggs saw Flinch he said, “I’d better stay with him. Go back to my room and call an ambulance.” He knelt next to Flinch, put a hand on his shoulder, and told him, “Hang in there … .”
When I got back from Mr. Briggs’s room, I saw Lucky watching from the top of the steps. He ducked away when the men came with the stretcher.
After they took Flinch to the hospital, I went back to the room to tell the others what had happened. None of the rest of us could sleep. We sat in the room and waited. All of us were pretty wound up, but Lucky was the worst. He kept pacing back and forth. The way he acted reminded me of my dad every time he tried to quit smoking. After about an hour of pacing, Lucky dashed out of the room.
“What’s up with him?” Torchie asked.
“No idea,” I said. Though I had a suspicion.
Lucky returned a couple minutes later. He stopped pacing, but he looked really strange. Nobody asked him what was going on. Nobody said much of anything.
Early the next morning, Flinch got back from the hospital. His arm was in a cast.
“Broken?” I asked.
He nodded.
“This is war,” Lucky said.
“Yeah,” I agreed with him. “It’s time to pay Bloodbath back.”
“How?” Torchie asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But sooner or later, we’ll get a chance.”
That chance came sooner than I’d expected.
FEELINGS AND THOUGHTS
PRISCILLA NOMAD
POLITICS
Saturday afternoon, I got fetched down to Principal Davis’s office. I guess he wanted information about Flinch’s accident. I wasn’t happy about sitting there. Waiting to see the principal was no big deal—it was a fairly common experience for me—and sticking with the story was no problem. But I wasn’t alone. Bloodbath was there, too, waiting his turn and casually peeling strips of vinyl from the back of the chair next to him. Five other seats were also filled. From what I’d seen, Davis caught up with discipline on the weekends. I guess he didn’t have any hobbies at home.