Lay Me Down

19. Best babysitter ever.

"Stay still," Cary snapped, and Jon felt his friend's fingers run over his skull and pinch down his neck. When Cary put his hands on either side of Jon's chest to check his ribs, it was like he could feel the broken shards stabbing him from the inside, and he cried out and shoved Cary away. Cary sat back hard in the dirt, holding one open hand between them. There were pine needles stuck to his palm. "I think your ribs are broke. Anything else hurt?"

It was hard to think with a knife going in and out of his side every time he breathed. He shifted one leg, then the other, then opened and closed his hands. Everything seemed to work like it should. Jon shook his head. Cary exhaled. "You could have broke your neck," he muttered.

He stood up, looking around at the empty space under the trees. He swore under his breath. It was a 10-minute hike back up to the street. "You have your phone?"

"No." Jon's voice was squeezed. He held his arm against his ribs and rolled onto his uninjured side, pushing himself to his knees. He hung his head, shivering, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes. Pain rocked him like waves.

Cary looked down at him a minute, his face unreadable. "There's nothing wrong with your legs. You're gonna have to walk out."

He could hardly breathe—it felt like being stabbed again and again. "Can't." His voice broke, and he just wanted his dad to pull up in the car, scoop him up, and drive him home.

Cary pressed his lips together, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking at the abandoned bikes. "Okay. I can make, like, a pillow to wrap around that rib and kind of support it. It'll hurt going on and then a little less than it does now. You'll have a free hand." He looked back at Jon like he was waiting for permission.

"Sure," Jon said. His voice was faint. "Sounds like a plan."

Cary pulled his hoodie over his head and spread it on the ground. He thumbed his knife open as he studied the shape of the shirt.

"You done this before?" Jon asked.

Cary made a short noise. "Doc's done it to me. No one lost their clothes."

Jon laughed, then made a strangled sound, trying to hold his arm still.

Cary cut the sweater with quick jerks of the knife, managing to hack a long, thick strip of black fabric made of the shirt's arms and body. "Fucking liked this hoodie," he muttered. He measured the strip against Jon's body. "Yup. Look at me."

Jon was on his knees in front of him, and Cary held his eyes. His mouth was hard, and his eyebrows were drawn together in a straight line. "I only want to do this once. So you need to hold still." Jon nodded, whimpering. Cary shifted, tucking his chin in. "You can do this, Jon. Okay? Breathe."

Jon took quick, shallow breaths, trying not to move his body.

Watching, Cary shook his head. "Slow, or you're gonna pass out. Count them like music." Cary breathed in and then out, saying, "One-two-three-four, One-two-three-four. Like that. Think of a song you like to play, and breathe and count."

Jon tried to do what Cary said to the only song he could think of: Bea's favourite, "Jesus Loves Me."

"I'm going to lift your arm and put it on my shoulder," Cary said, doing it the moment he said it. Jon lost count, clenching his teeth on the tearing pain, and gripping his right ankle with his free hand to keep from knocking Cary away.

Jon managed to pick up his breathing and counting again while Cary folded up the remaining pieces of his hoodie like a pillow and set them against his ribs. Cary took a breath. "Wish we had ice," he muttered. "Hell, wish we had opes and a pizza." He put the hoodie bandage against Jon's body. "Hold this for me while I tie it."