HE WOKE TO SEE THEM BENDING OVER HIM

He woke up to see them one bending over him, the other moving from one spot to another, moving, because she didn’t know what to do. In seconds, he realized what must have happened. The answer came to him easily. Because he remembered saying he only ran a little more, and he didn’t remember how he got from that to the floor. There was a throbbing in his head. His traps hurt. Electrolytes. Give him some electrolytes. She intercommed downstairs and asked the boy to bring some up. She closed the door firmly. He asked him if he wanted a pillow. He said no, thank you. He was fine. The man gave him a pillow anyways. He placed his head under it. Then the man grabbed his feet and raised them, “so as to get some more blood into your head.” The purpose it served to his mind, just a quick thought, was that it started the recovery process for his feet. R.I.C.E. Rest. Ice. Compress. Elevate. He didn’t have time to think about how the order might be wrong. But did it matter? No. One of them started massaging his legs. The other held his hand, murmuring silent prayers under her breath. He was still a little dizzy but with time, was coming to. He began to sniffle. His mother asked what was wrong. He said nothing. Stubborn as always. Then he couldn’t help himself. It grew louder. She asked again, concerned. He saw his mother and father looking at one another. He couldn’t see their expressions past the blanket of tears that covered his eyes. He said nothing. In his head, he thought. Maybe I should tell them. The one massaging his feet went over to his bedside. He grabbed a small pocket sized machine and put the boy’s index finger in it. The machine began to beep. It sounded normal. He began to cry again. His mother asked what was wrong. He said nothing. A pause. In his head, this is it. I don’t know if I’ll get the chance again. He said the words, too fast, he thought. “This just feels nice, is all.” “Meray betay.” His father sobbed as he bent over and hugged him. He couldn’t help it, he began to sob, just as he wrapped his free arm around his prone father. His mother began to wail. Frankly, he thought that was a bit overdramatic. But all three of them were now crying. He could feel his father’s stubble on his cheek. The man raised his head a few times, to look at his son, or to breathe, he didn’t know. But one of those times, the son was struck by how much his father looked like his grandfather. Balding. Round face. Wracked with emotion. His heart felt lighter now. He closed his eyes. “It’s getting worse,” he heard her saying. She was on his left, his father was on his right. Turns out, there was also a cut in his head. He turned on the selfie camera on his phone and looked at it and laughed. It was a gash. There was a lot of blood. What a day.

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