Ben thought he intended to climb over, but grabbed on tighter to his torso when Tim began to pull instead. He almost toppled backwards when the plank gave way to Tim’s efforts and came loose, swinging to the side as it fell. This process was repeated for a second time, and then a third, creating just enough of a gap for them to squeeze through.

Tim went first, holding on to the top of the fence for support once Ben let go of him. He stumbled on his way through and landed on his ankle, screaming as he righted himself. Ben hurried through to assist him, feeling that the owners of the house would hear the commotion in their backyard and come to help. As they made it halfway across the lawn, they could see through the sliding glass door that the house was empty, having not been sold yet. At least they wouldn’t have to explain the vandalism.

They made it through the gate to the front yard, not encountering another living soul as they made their way down the sidewalk. That was the funny thing about the suburbs. So much trouble went into a neighborhood looking as presentable as possible, but rarely was anyone there to appreciate it. Hire a boy to the cut the grass and pull up to the mailbox before parking in the garage. Ben wondered if most of his neighbors had ever set foot on their own lawn. No, the suburbs were all prettied up and left to sit alone, like a beauty queen awaiting an audience that would never come.

Ben tried to smooth over his earlier revelations by feigning ignorance as they reached Tim’s house. “Which one is yours?” he asked.

“You tell me,” Tim said smartly as they turned to hobble past his car.

“Is anyone home?” Ben asked, partly out of concern but mostly to change topics.

“No.”

“Then shouldn’t we drive straight to the hospital?”

“I just need to take my weight off it,” Tim said irritably as the reached the front door, which was unlocked.

They stepped into cool, dark air conditioning. The curtains in the house were mostly closed to help keep the Texas heat at bay. Tim flipped a few light switches and led them to the living room, which was tastefully decorated but very, very unwelcoming. The room had the soulless presence of a model home. Sure, it looked nice, but it was obvious that no real living went on there.

They reached a pale, peach-colored couch that Tim eased onto. As he settled onto the piece of furniture that was probably being used for the first time, he sighed contentedly.

“There’s a first-aid kit in the bathroom,” he said. “Bring me a wet washcloth. A towel, too.”

“Where is it?” Ben asked.

“I’m surprised you don’t know already. It’s right down the hall on the left.”

Ben hurried out of the room, mentally chastising himself for triggering a series of events that would haunt him for his final years of high school. He found the bathroom, a simple affair reserved for guests, and collected the items that were requested.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t go to the hospital? Or a doctor at least?” he said as he reentered the living room.

“No need.” Tim took the washcloth and began patting at the crust of dried blood on his leg. “Same thing happened to me freshman year. I still have a brace upstairs and everything. It’s not a big deal. A couple of days with that on and I’ll be fine again.”

Ben had to admit that the leg was looking better now that much of the blood had been cleaned up. Once bandaged it probably wouldn’t need medical attention. The ankle was a different story, swollen on each side like a chipmunk’s cheeks and turning a dark, unhealthy color.

“It’s just--”

“Thanks for helping me get home,” Tim interrupted. The finality in his voice was clear; Ben was expected to leave. He turned to do so, spluttering more clumsy apologies as he went. He stopped and turned at the door. “Are you sure you are going to be all right? When do your parents get back?”

“In about two weeks.” Tim grimaced as he wrapped the cloth bandage around his shin. “They’re in Switzerland.”

Ben swallowed, but it failed to flush away the guilty taste in his mouth as he left the house and began his walk home.

__________

Chapter 4

Ben was back in front of Tim’s front door, a book tucked under one arm. He had done nothing but worry since he had left a few hours ago. First Ben had returned to the scene of the crime where he had so carelessly left his Rollerblades. They were still in the ditch, not far from a sharp, blood-spattered rock that jutted out of the ground. At least the culprit for the shin injury had been discovered, Ben thought, well aware that he was trying to shift the blame away from himself.

Once he was home he declined his mom’s invitation of a snack and instead went to his room. Ben anguished over the foolishness of his actions for the better part of an hour before his self-pity gave way to a growing concern for Tim’s well-being. A million nightmare situations played out in Ben’s head, the worst being that Tim would contract some sort of infection and have his leg amputated or would die. The morbid medical fantasies piled up until Ben decided to seek out facts from his mother’s family medical guide.

The gruesome book had provided Ben with hours of entertainment as a kid. Not only did it show nauseating pictures of diseases in their most advanced and repulsive stages, but it also featured self-diagnosis charts that were all too easy to navigate successfully. Ben had previously utilized their wisdom to diagnose himself with everything from vaginal yeast infections to critical brain tumors. Now for the first time he was turning to it with all seriousness.

What Ben had learned had brought him scampering back to Tim’s house. Stomach bubbling nervously and palms breaking out in sweat, Ben rang the door bell. Someone called out in response. Thinking that Tim had fallen somewhere and was helpless, he opened the front door and gave a tentative, “Hello?”

“Hey! Come in!”

Tim certainly sounded more cheerful. Ben rushed to the living room and found Tim lying on the same uncomfortable couch as if he had never moved, which couldn’t be true since an open can of Coke and a bottle of pills were on the coffee table. The leg was now bandaged and elevated on the arm of the couch, but Tim looked pale and cold. He was still wearing his jogging shorts and tank top, and with the air conditioner going full blast, it was no wonder. The ankle was just as swollen as before, but now it had graduated to a deep shade of maroon.

“Good that you’re here,” Tim croaked, sounding very much like Leon before he cleared his throat. “I think it might be worse than I thought.”

“Yeah,” Ben held the book up, brandishing it as if it were a medical degree. “I think you have a third-degree sprain. Either that or it’s broken. You really need to get to a hospital.”

“Probably should,” Tim nodded with glassy eyes.

“Er, I know this is a really stupid question, but are you all right?”

“Yeah. After you left I dragged my ass into the kitchen and remembered some pills from last time. They’ve got me feeling--” he gestured with his right arm before letting it flop onto his forehead-- “Oh man,” he finished.

Ben cast around for a phone. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No, fuck that,” Tim muttered. “I’m not dying or anything. We’ll take my car. You can drive, right?”

“Yes,” Ben said a little tensely. He could drive, but he hated it. Since winning his driver’s license with solid “D” in driver’s ed, he had driven all of three times, each occasion forced on him by his parents.

“Well get me up and we’ll be on our way.”

Tim appeared cold, but his skin was hot when Ben wrapped an arm around his back to help him up. Maybe it was a side effect of the pills, or maybe he had a fever. Either way, Ben was relieved that they were finally taking action. Getting Tim to the car was very much like all those movies Ben had seen where a drunken man hung like a limp doll on a supporting friend. Just how many of those painkillers had he taken?