After the long winter, it felt so good to be outside. He pushed harder, lengthening the space between him and Coll. He’d had a growth spurt over the winter, and it was easy to outpace his sister. He felt the satisfying burn in his muscles and answered the call for more speed. He’d wait for Coll at the top of the hill. She was lazy, after all.
And then he heard a noise he couldn’t place—was Colleen coughing? Was it a motor? No, that wasn’t—
Then there was a brown blur streaking at him, and he was falling before he even realized it hit him, his bike on top of him. It wasn’t Coll making the noise, it was a dog. The brown thing was a dog, and it was furious.
There was no time to react, no time even to be scared, just hard pavement under his shoulder and hip and his hands trying to keep the dog’s head away from his throat. The world was full of sound—angry, raging snarls and Colleen’s screams. Was she okay? Where was she?
All Connor could see was the dog’s mouth, huge, gaping and snapping, its neck thick and strong, and that mouth went way, way back like a snake’s, and he knew once those teeth bit into him, he’d be dead. It was trying to kill him, Connor realized distantly. This might be the way he died. Not in front of Colleen. Please.
Before the thought was even finished, teeth sank into Connor’s arm, and the dog shook its head, and Jesus, it was so strong, Connor was just a rag the dog was whipping around, and he couldn’t yell or fight; he was nothing compared to the muscular fury of the dog. Colleen was screaming, the dog snarling, Connor silent as he tried to hold on to his arm so it wouldn’t be torn off.
Then Colleen was hitting the dog with her backpack and kicking it, and no cars were anywhere. It would’ve been so great if someone stopped and helped; he wanted a grown-up so badly right now. His arm was on fire, and there was blood, and still the dog pulled and shook, as if Colleen wasn’t even there.
The dog finally released his arm and turned toward Colleen, who kicked it square in the face. God, she was brave, but what if it bit her? And then in a flash, it seemed to do just that, and Connor kicked it in the leg, and it turned back toward him—good, good, better than Colleen—and then it was on him again.
His face this time, and this was it, he was going to die. Those huge jaws clamped down, and a searing burn flashed and throbbed, the whole left side of his face. The dog didn’t let go. Colleen was hysterical now, kicking and kicking the dog, and Connor could see her eyes, open so wide he could see the whole gray circle of her irises.
Get out of here, Collie. Run.
He was passing out. Colleen’s screams were fainter now.
Then there was a yelp, and the dog was gone, and Connor instinctively held his hand up to his cheek, which was hot and throbbing and way too wet.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Colleen sobbed, dropping to her knees to hug him. “Help us!” she screamed to someone.
“Are you okay?” Connor asked, his voice odd and weak. Was his face still on? “Coll?”
She pulled back, shaking. “You’re bleeding. It’s bad.”
They were in front of West’s Trailer Park, where the poor kids lived. Tiffy Ames and Levi Cooper and Jessica Dunn.
And there was Jess now, holding the dog by its collar, trying to lift it up. Her brother, who had something wrong with him, had latched on to the dog, sobbing and saying one word over and over. Cheeto or something. “Is she okay?” Connor asked, but his voice was too weak to be heard. “Is her brother okay?”
“Call the ambulance,” Colleen yelled, her voice high and wobbly.
“Are you all right, Collie?” he asked. The gray was back.
“I’m fine. But you’re...hurt.”
“How bad?”
“Bad. But it’s okay. You’re okay.” Tears dripped off her cheeks onto him.
“Am I gonna die?”
“No! Jeez, Connor! No!” But he could tell she didn’t know. She wadded up her sweatshirt and pushed it against his jaw, making him see black-and-white flashes of pain. His hand was shiny and slick with dark red blood. “Just take deep breaths,” she said, biting her lip.
It helped. The sky became blue again, and Colleen’s shirt was pink. And bloodstained. The town siren went off, such a good sound...but so far away, it seemed.
“They’re coming. Just hang on. Help is on the way,” Colleen said. She sounded way too adult. Tears were streaming down her face, and her lips were trembling.
There was a bang of a door, and Connor looked over. Jessica Dunn’s father had come outside. “What did you kids do to my son?” he asked, staggering a little, and Connor couldn’t help feeling bad for Jessica. Everyone knew her parents were drunks.
“Get that fucking dog inside!” Colleen shouted.
Yikes. He’d never heard her swear before. It made him think that his face was pretty much gone, and he might in fact be dying.
Jessica pushed her little brother aside, finally, then bent down and picked up the dog. It was heavy, Connor could tell. Connor knew.
“Chico!” her brother screamed. “Don’t take Chico away!” He ran after Jessica, punching her on the back with his fists, but she went into the trailer—the rattiest, dirtiest one—and closed the door behind her.
Then Levi Cooper’s mother came out, a toddler on her hip, and seeing Connor, ran over to him. “Oh, my God, what happened?” she said, and Connor realized he was shaking, but at least there was a nice grown-up here now.
“The Dunns’ dog attacked him.” Colleen said, her voice breaking. “It came out of nowhere.”
“God,” Mrs. Cooper said. “I’ve told them that dog is a menace. You just lie still, honey.” She patted Connor’s leg.
It was weird, lying there, Mrs. Cooper telling him not to move, Colleen’s sweatshirt pressed against his throbbing face, the Dunns standing in their yard. The father was loud and kept saying things like “That dog wouldn’t hurt a fly,” and “Why were those kids in my yard anyway?” and Colleen was holding his hand too hard.
When the ambulance did come, it was both embarrassing and such a relief he almost cried. There was fuss and questions, gauze and radio. “Minor child, age twelve, attacked by dog,” Mr. Stoakes said into the radio. Minor child. Cripes. Everyone was shooting dirty looks at the Dunns.
They put a neck brace on Connor and packed him onto a gurney. Mrs. Cooper said she’d called Connor’s mom, and she’d meet him at the hospital. Colleen rode in the front of the ambulance, sobbing.
In the ER, he was told he was very lucky, and that it could’ve been so much worse. He ended up with eleven stitches in his jaw, eight under his eye. “Don’t worry about the scar,” said the hip young doctor who was doing the job. “Chicks love scars.” Another sixteen stitches in his arm, but it was the bite on his face that was the big concern. A bump on his head, road rash on his back where his shirt had ridden up. He was a mess, in other words. Everything stung, throbbed or burned.
Mom was weepy all that night. Connor was woozy from the pain meds. Colleen made him a get-well card without any insults, which made Connor think he must look worse than he realized. “You saved me,” he told her, and she burst into tears.
“I didn’t,” she said. “I tried, but I couldn’t.”