Reid was the only person who scared me at that time, and he wanted to kill me because his girlfriend Lacey’d told him I’d forced myself on her while he was in youth lockup, and because I’d stolen a hundred dollars from him. I was aware he’d knocked a guy’s teeth out with a pool ball in a tube sock (it was the cue ball); now he was in jail for attempting robbery with a needle filled with his own Hepatitis C-infected blood. To smooth things over, I decided to steal my own car, a 1991 Lincoln Town Car with gold spoke rims I’d convinced my dad I needed in order to find a job, which I drove for three weeks with the emergency brakes on, marveling at the grinding noises. It broke down and sat dusty in my parents’ driveway until Reid got out of lockup and began commenting RAPIST on all of my Facebook photos and that he was coming to my house to find me. 

I took the keys and title to the Lincoln from my dad’s bedside table and called Cash for Clunkers. They came, wrote me a check for two hundred dollars and towed it away. I hadn’t seen so much money in months. I walked my mom’s old bike (I’d sold mine already) from the garage and began riding towards the bank. I was wearing oversized silver basketball shorts and a tall white tee, gripping the handlebars with the check in my right hand riding up the small hill on 108th Street when I lost my balance and tipped over. The hand holding the check broke my fall. I looked down and saw a gash in the center of my wrist and white bone poking through the bloody flesh. I screamed and then scooted a few feet into the street with my left hand to retrieve the check. There wasn’t a drop of blood on it. I was still screaming when a car stopped. A guy got out, picked me up, helped me into his car, and promised to take me to the hospital. I told him I can’t go to the hospital. I have to cash this check. I rocked back and forth in his front seat telling him he didn’t understand, I really need to cash this check. He agreed to take me to the drive-through at Bank of the West. I noticed the man, mid-50s with slightly graying hair and sturdy shoulders, had a photo of two small children embracing on his dashboard. He was a father, I thought, he’d understand.

We drove down Durham Road. I tried not to breathe too hard, hunched over, both in pain and to conceal my injury. The white bone had disappeared behind a bubble of blood and I told myself this was maybe good. When we pulled into the drive-through, the teller asked us to pass my ID and the check through the vestibule and I realized I didn’t have my ID; I’d left my wallet at home. I need to go home and grab my wallet really fast, I told the man in the driver’s seat. He immediately protested, saying he didn’t have time for this. It’s the hospital or the street, he said. You don’t understand, I repeated, trance-like in agony, folded in half in his passenger seat and staring at the space between my feet. I finally turned my head and looked up at him crying. I was aware of how wet my face was. You don’t understand, I said, I owe someone this money and it’s going to get a lot worse for me if I don’t cash this check. I became hysterical. He used his right hand to move the car into reverse and we backed out of the drive-through.

We drove back down Durham Road. I can’t believe I’m doing this, he said, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I stayed hunched over. Blood soaked through the part of my jeans where I rested my wrist on my thigh. He asked me where I live. I told him to turn onto 108th and began attempting to sit up. I’d have to run into the house to grab my wallet and was wondering if I could stand. I used my left hand to open the passenger door when he pulled up to the house and hobbled to the front gate, bent over feebly at the waist to keep my hand balanced on my leg. I went inside and wailed for a moment before snapping out of it and looking for my wallet, which was on the kitchen island next to a lighter and half-burnt cigarette. I grabbed the wallet and a dish towel, pressing it gently to my mangled wrist and left. I was relieved to see that the man was still there and Reid was not. 

The passenger-side door was still open and beeping to be closed when I approached the car. The man in the driver’s seat seemed highly alert and madder than I remembered. I got in, reached over myself and shut the door with my left hand and the beeping stopped. Can I please take you to the hospital, the man in the driver’s seat said. I doubled over and repeated please until the car began to move again. I thought I should apply more pressure to my pulsing wrist with the dish towel but was afraid it would hurt or fuck something up as we made our way down the same roads back to the bank. When we returned to the drive-through, I handed the man the check without a single drop of blood on it, and my entire wallet. I watched him take out my driver’s license and examine it. He looked over at me in amazement. You’re David’s kid? he said. Jesus, fuck.

The teller, a woman, passed back the check with a pen and said to sign the back. The man looked at me and shook his head, signed the check and passed it through the vestibule. How did I want my bills, she said, and he answered that too, saying twenties is fine. She passed him ten twenty dollar bills and for a brief moment my pain disappeared as I wondered if he was going to rob me. But he handed over the money without hesitation and the car was moving again. He was taking me to the emergency room in Tualatin. As we passed Tigard High School on our right, I screamed to turn left. My voice was hoarse from wailing. The man yelped and instinctively yanked the steering wheel, turning into a residential neighborhood where my friend James lived.

The top of my head slammed against the glove compartment when the man in the driver’s seat floored the brakes. A pathetic noise, Teletubby-like, came out of my mouth. The man in the driver’s seat pulled the car up onto the curb and told me to get out now. In a stroke of miracle, I looked out the window and saw James four houses down standing on the curb in Star Wars pajama pants, looking down and smoking a cigarette, seeming at rest. He had greasy, black hair to his shoulders. I told the man in the driver’s seat, that’s him, drop me off with him. The car jerked forward. James appeared not to notice us, he just kept looking down with his eyes closed until I opened the door and said his name. He finally emerged from his reverie as I was climbing out of the car. I told you, you can’t show up here unannounced, Donny, he said, I’m not kidding, get back in the car. The passenger-side door was still open when the man sped away and almost hit James as he passed. I think I broke my wrist, I said, daintily moving the dish rag away from my arm. James looked down and his eyes got wide. He dropped his cigarette. Holy fuck, man, what the fuck are you doing here? His reaction panicked me and I started breathing really shallow, making a scene, feeling like I was going to faint. 

James put his arm around me and led me up the stairs to the split-level he still lived in with his parents. He was helping me down to the basement when I heard his mom yelling from upstairs. Who’s here James? I told you no visitors! You’re not allowed to have friends over right now! The voice was surprisingly deep and persuasively angry. Who the fuck is in my house, James? When I got to the basement I was shocked to see Lacey sitting on one of three shitty couches huddled around the TV. Lacey, with her soft, pouty face, dark hair and olive-green skin, had been the prettiest girl doing opiates at our high school. I didn’t blame her for lying about our hookup. It was something I would do. Telling Reid that I’d raped her was easier than explaining we’d gotten high and tried to have sex on a whim one night while he was locked up and had never talked about it since. But I wondered why she’d said anything at all, and why she was here. I didn’t know Lacey and James had been hanging out.

In the corner of the basement there was a wilted inflatable mattress on the floor covered with sleeping bags and blankets. James helped me to the couch and then disappeared upstairs. Lacey smiled tentatively, before glancing down at my wrist and moving aside the dish towel. She put her hand over her mouth (she had perfect teeth) before quickly collecting herself. I had resumed rocking back and forth in an attempt to stave off the pain. I know, she said. She got up and pulled a clear baggy of 1mg Klonopins out of her purse. She handed me four of the yellow pills and asked if I needed a cup of water. I told her I didn’t, clumsily tossing the pills down my throat. James reappeared. Do you have the money? It’s in my front pocket, I said, just take $60. James fished all $200 out of my pocket before removing three twenties and stuffing the rest back in. He looked at Lacey, gave her a little smile that turned my stomach, and went upstairs again. 

A dull pain overtook my entire right side. Lacey’s voice sounded like it was coming from another room. Dude, what happened to you? I began to sob. I don’t really know what happened, I said. I knew my life was fucked up and that this horrifying event marked a turning point from which things would change and that they wouldn’t. Lacey rubbed my back as we waited for James to return. Soon he did and handed me two balloons. I said where’s the third? He said I owed him $20 from a few weeks ago and shrugged. Can you help me? I asked. He sat crisscross on the floor near a wooden ash bloodstained coffee table. Just give me both right now, I said. James unwrapped the balloons and threw off the small pieces of plastic shopping bag, dropping the rocks into a cooker and applying heat. I think your mom should give me a ride to Meridian Park after this, I said. James nodded. He pulled a dark brown liquid into a 28mm half tip insulin syringe and flicked it off. It was one of those dark, sludgy shots you never forget. There’s the first shot and the last shot and there are shots like these, which feel like a proof of concept for the whole thing, being alive, being a junkie, the insane accident of everything melting into a totalizing, beautiful affirmation that lasts around two hours.

I gained a certain clarity regarding my situation. I began regaling Lacey and James with the story of how I broke my wrist and how I convinced this guy to take me to the bank before ending up here. I was propped up on the couch with a big red pillow in my lap and my wrist resting on top. James sat at my side feeding me a Marlboro Red and we all began laughing at this poor schmuck who dropped me off. An episode of Scrubs played on the TV and the basement was dark. What a fucking idiot. I would have drived right by you, no doubt. Where’s Reid, I said. He’s finishing community service but he’s going to pick me up later. Tell him I have his $100, I said proudly, and tell him nothing happened between us. I’m so sorry about that, he’s crazy, I didn’t even tell him you did that, I shouldn’t have told him anything, really. Lacey rubbed the back of my head. I thought about how at first I couldn’t get hard on the night that had more or less catalyzed all this. I’d kissed her and touched myself desperately trying to make something happen. We tried for so long that Lacey began to fall asleep. I pretended not to notice. I told her to lay on her stomach and I fucked her from behind until she said it was starting to hurt. I rolled off and we lay there, my hand rubbing her naked back as we dozed. In the morning she thanked me for letting her crash and promptly left. I hadn’t seen her since. Now Lacey looked down and said she hadn’t been home to her mom’s house in a week and that she and James were on a waiting list for inpatient treatment. James just nodded his head. 

My wrist reminded me it was broken and fucked up. I lifted the dish rag. There was a bluish hue forming around the wound. I screamed. James went to ask his mom to give me a ride. I began to imagine Reid coming down the stairs and attacking me, grabbing my fucked up wrist and snapping it in half. I could see him kicking my head and knocking me out, fucking with my wrist while I was unconscious. I suddenly felt there was no real limit to his depravity. The fields we played soccer on were really green. The previous winter we convinced a homeless man to jump off the waterfront into the freezing Willamette river for a few tabs of acid. He screamed Dose me, brother as he jumped. When his body reappeared he was already ten feet downstream and struggling to keep his head up. Reid stuffed the acid back into his jeans and we ran. I wished I could save him but we just laughed and kept running. I suddenly felt dizzy and thought I was going to pass out. I could hear James and his mom arguing upstairs, and knew she was going to take me to the hospital. 

I met her by the garage. She looked at me and sighed and moved the dish rag and looked at my wrist. Oh honey, she said, and tears arrived in my eyes. She hugged me and I thought of my own mom, who had already or was about to find out I’d done something with the car. I was sure she was going to kick me out of the house for good this time. Maybe they’d let me stay in the shed again. James’ mom helped me into the passenger seat of her minivan and James climbed in the back. Lacey said goodbye and that she would maybe see me later, after she talked with Reid. I was starting to feel high and emotional. I love you, I told her. Everything is going to be fine. My words slurred. She looked confused, then sad, then walked back into the house with her perfect teeth. 

By the time we got to the hospital, the dish rag had fused to my wrist. James pushed me in a wheelchair to the front desk of the emergency room. They handed him a clipboard with a dangling pen and he began filling out the forms. Do you remember your birthday, he asked. June 16th. Oh yeah, it’s always the last day of school, I knew that. Yeah. Do you know your mother’s maiden name? Justice. The waiting room felt less crowded than it did a few weeks prior. I was appalled by how many people were here when I came to get a cyst removed from my face. I’d never felt more hideous. Do you remember when your dad saved me from drowning in the Clackamas River? We were playing that game he taught us, trying to stand on this one big rock in the middle of the river, King of the Rock, where the current was so strong you could barely get a grip with your feet. We had to jump in and try to knock off whoever was standing on the rock. I’d finally gotten on the rock and was struggling to balance against the current when I saw your dad jump in and swim at me crazy, he was swimming so fast. When he got there he threw me off the rock so hard it knocked the wind out of me and I ended up in the rapids downstream. I thought I was a fuckin’ goner, I was really drowning, and then all of a sudden he was there scooping me out of the water. I still felt like I couldn’t breathe but he was already laughing. Kinda lightened the mood a little bit. He saved me. Yeah, I guess. But he’s the reason you were downstream in the first place, he’s still the asshole who knocked you off the rock. No man, I don’t really look at it like that. I loved playing King of the Rock. 

James finished filling out the form and returned it to the front desk lady. He told me he was leaving and gave me a small hug. I couldn’t imagine going home. It was getting dark by the time the doctor came in and told me I’d need surgery on my wrist, but it was too fucked up right now to operate. We’re going to wrap it up and set a date for surgery in a week, he said. He looked at the track marks snaking up my left forearm that reached a dark blueish crescendo in the crook of my elbow. Do you have a ride home? I asked if I could use a phone. He looked at the nurse and nodded. The nurse guided me to the front desk and asked me what to dial. I began reciting the number to my parents house, a number I still remember, but began having second thoughts halfway through.