“Concussion,” he said finally, “probably moderate. He needs to stay still for at least three days, longer if symptoms persist. Watch for vomiting, confusion, severe headache. If any of that happens, you call me immediately, and we’ll get him to the hospital in Wichita.” “He can stay here,” Marcus heard himself say.
Patterson looked at him over his glasses. “You sure about that, Marcus? You don’t know this man.” “I pulled him out of a burning car. Can’t very well leave him in a ditch now.” The doctor nodded slowly. “All right, I’ll check on him tomorrow. And Marcus, that was a good thing you did, a brave thing.”
After Patterson left, Marcus sat in the kitchen and let himself feel it, the full weight of what had just happened, what he’d just lost. Alicia was at the library in town, studying for her SATs even though she’d already been accepted to Columbia because that’s who she was. She didn’t know yet. He’d have to tell her when she got home that their plans, their careful calculations, had just gone up in smoke.
His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the kitchen table, an old wooden thing with water stains and knife marks, and made himself breathe. The man on the couch groaned softly. Marcus stood and walked back to the living room. The stranger’s eyes were open now, confused and unfocused. He blinked several times, trying to orient himself, his hand moving instinctively toward the bandage on his head.
“Easy,” Marcus said, his voice gentle. “You were in a car accident. You hit your head pretty good. Doctor says you need to rest.” The man stared at him. “What happened?” “Your car went off the road, crashed into my cornfield. I pulled you out before it exploded.”
Understanding dawned slowly in the man’s eyes, followed immediately by horror. “Your field, oh god, did I—” “It caught fire,” Marcus said simply. “Burned about a third of it before we could get it under control. But you’re alive, and that’s what matters.”
The stranger looked like he might be sick. “I am so sorry. I don’t even remember what happened. The road just turned and I couldn’t—” He stopped, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I’ll pay for the damages, whatever it costs, insurance or out of pocket, whatever you need.”
“Let’s worry about that later. Right now, you need to rest. What’s your name?” “Marcus Hill.” “And you are?” The man hesitated for just a fraction of a second. “Nathan. Nathan Cole.”