I step out of the car and walk around it, bending to look under.
A man lies on his side with his leg stuck under my tire.
He’s not moving, and I can barely make my feet move toward him. I’m terrified of what I’ll see. A smashed, bloodied face that’ll never smile again because of me? Was I not watching the road?I swear I wasn’t texting, Your Honor.
A long, bulky, hard-cased bag is attached to his arm by a strap. I lean over it to look at him. With a gasp, I cover my mouth. There’s blood all over his face.
Oh my God, I killed a man.
Drive away! Get in your car and get out of here.
With a shaky hand, I pick up his wrist and feel for a pulse. He has one.
“Hello!” Yes, he’s alive. “Hello! Holy shit, I should’ve flagged down Tris.” What the hell was I thinking, sitting in my car contemplating my life choices while a person fought for hislife trapped under my tire? It’s not like I haven’t contemplated my life choices enough since Ashley and Sergei confessed their relationship and the divorce proceedings started.
“Thank God you made it. Are you okay?” I crouch beside him. Of course the man’s not okay. I just hit him with my car. Duh. When he doesn’t answer my dumb question, I rub his shoulder. “I’m calling for help now.”
The man says something and grabs his leg, trying to pull it free.
“Your leg is under the tire. That’s why you can’t move. I swear to God, I wasn’t texting. I didn’t see you walking. I’m so sorry.” I frown at the phone. Why is the call center not picking up? I disconnect and dial again.
“Selnoa City Emergency Response, what’s your emergency?”
“I—”
The man twists at the waist and knocks the phone out of my hand.
I move to pick it up, but he mutters, “No.” He grimaces as he sits up and holds his leg. A single shrug dumps the large bag from his shoulder, and he picks up the hem of his dirty T-shirt and wipes his face with it.
“There’s a cut on your face. Near the temple,” I say, crouched next to him. “It’s still bleeding. Um, I can call again.”
The man shakes his head. “Bring me your phone.”
Okay, maybe he wants to make the call himself. I retrieve the phone and notice the open line. I hand it to him, and he hangs up. I expect he’ll hand me back the phone, but he pockets it, then looks up at the sky, tilting his head.
I follow his gaze. “It’s a helicopter.”
The man grabs the sturdy bag and shoves it under the car, creating a prop to lift the car enough so that he can tug his injured foot free. Then he scoots under the car and stays there.
The helicopter passes over us.
The man comes out from under the car, but then slides back.
Another helicopter passes overhead.
Is he looking for something under there? Hopefully not a small dog. Or a child.Oh my God.I bend and look. Nobody else. For a moment there, I thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown.
“Can I help you find anything?” I ask.
Finally, the man shimmies out and unfolds his lean swimmer’s body to well over six feet. Six four if I had to guess, but it’s hard to tell when he’s favoring his left leg. He wipes his bleeding temple with the back of his hand.
“You hit a pedestrian,” he says.
I swallow. Although I said plenty while I tried to get him help, I know better than to say anything to his accusation.
“We can sort this out between the two of us,” he suggests.
“We can?”
