HUM by Dan Hawley (chromebook ebook reader TXT) 📕

When the cops were satisfied, they talked to Samantha. She gave her account, and the cops moved on to other witnesses. While the cops were taking statements, the paramedics arrived on the scene. They were wearing thin white hazmat suits, respirators, and plastic face shields.

Extra precautions due to the pandemic, Jason thought.

Two sets of blue gloved hands grabbed the stretcher from the truck, and the two paramedics placed it down beside the hurt cyclist. They checked his vitals, secured his arm, and slid a flat board under his body. Then they strapped him in and lifted him onto the stretcher. From there, it was up the path, into the meat wagon, and off to the nearest hospital. It was a whirlwind of action, like something out of a cartoon. They were gone as quickly as they had come, leaving Jason with his bruises and bloody hands.

CHAPTER 12

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Samantha said as she closed the apartment door behind them. The paramedics had asked Jason if he was ok and he had said yes, but now the adrenaline had worn off, and he felt like he’d been hit by a freight train. He kicked off his boots and headed for the bathroom. Samantha ran warm water into the sink and grabbed the rubbing alcohol from beneath it. Jason winced as water poured over his scraped palms. He winced even harder and let out a yelp when Samantha dabbed at his palms with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

“Son of a bitch!” he hissed.

“You’re ok.”

Sam grabbed another cotton ball for the other palm, held it to the open bottle, and inverted it, allowing the cool liquid to leak out. The other hand wasn’t as bad, and Jason was thankful for that.

Samantha grabbed the bottom of Jason’s shirt and pulled it up over his head. She spun him around to inspect his shoulder. It was red and already showing signs of bruising. Little purple lines marked his skin where the weight of the cyclist had pulled it in an unnatural way.

“It’s like I’m cursed or something,” Jason said.

“Cursed?”

“I dunno. I just feel like nothing has gone right since we got here. This place is just kicking my ass.”

Jason sat down on the toilet seat and hung his head, holding his palms up so the air could dry them.

“Speaking of which, how is your bum?” Sam asked.

Jason pressed the back of his hand against his tailbone.

“Not too bad, I guess.”

“Have a warm bath, and when you’re done, we’ll ice you down,” Sam said as she turned on the tub faucet. Jason nodded and removed the rest of his clothing, leaving it all in a pile on the floor. Samantha planted a small kiss on his lips and bent over to pick up the clothes.

“There’s blood on your shirt from your hands, I guess,” Samantha noted as she inspected the clothes. “I’ll see if I can get it out.”

She watched as Jason carefully entered the half-filled tub, then she headed to the laundry room.

* * *

“The guy almost killed me,” Jason said into the phone. He was lying on his back on the leather couch, propped up with some pillows. The news flashed on the silent tv screen. Samantha was turning something into deliciousness in the kitchen. A savory aroma hung in the air. Jason adjusted the icepack under his shoulder.

“Came outta nowhere and kablooey! You shoulda seen him fly, Dad.” Jason paused. “He got all fucked up; his arm was just dangling there in like three pieces.”

“Jesus,” the voice from the speaker said. “You’re good, though? Nothing broken?”

That was how Jason’s dad measured the severity of a situation. Broken bones? No? Then you’re fine, just walk it off.

Ron Steele was a bit old school in his approach to parenting; in his approach to all things, really. He was stern but fair and made sure he did the best he could do. Ron had never coddled Jason; he had wanted his son to grow up strong and independent. Ron supposed he had succeeded; his son was so independent that he had moved two thousand miles away. Ron wondered if his son might have stayed closer to home if he had felt more love from his father. Perhaps Ron could have made more of an effort. He did tell his son that he was proud of him, and often. Ron used to think that was good enough.

Jason adjusted the icepack again; this time, he moved it under his tailbone. He was wearing loose, black track pants and an old beat-up t-shirt. He figured he looked about as good as he felt.

“Yeah, I’m alright, Dad. Just a bit beat up. Sam’s taking good care of me.”

“Thank God for her,” Ron said. “Don’t know what you did to land that one, son, but you better not screw it up.”

Ron’s voice was light and joking, but they both knew the truth of his words.

“You’re too kind,” Samantha called from the kitchen. “Ah shit, she heard me, huh? Just as well. Hey sweety, how are ya?”

“Good, Ron. A little drained from the day, but it could have been worse.”

“That’s the truth,” Jason added, remembering the cyclist on his back in the middle of the cement path, holding his smashed-up arm close to his body protectively, his hip on sideways, staring into the abyss with that freaked-out look on his face. Jason pictured the crimson pool of blood as it slowly formed in the man’s eye socket. Each blink added a touch of deep red to the white of the man’s eye until the entire sphere had finally been covered, drowned in its own ocular cavity. Jason snapped out of it and noticed Samantha plating dinner.

“Ok, Dad. Looks like it’s dinner time.”

“Alright, glad you’re ok. Take it easy,” Ron said, and Jason touched the screen to end the call.

He sat up just as Samantha lowered their plates onto the coffee table, the delightful smell of green Thai curry wafting up to Jason’s nose. He breathed in deeply.

“Mm,