Read Fry Me a Liver for Free Online Page B

my uncle. You’re from Philly?”
    â€œI was an undergrad there. How did you know?”
    It may have seemed like an inane question given the circumstances, but I was trying to keep my mind off our circumstances.
    â€œYou pronounced ‘Murray’ as ‘Merry.’”
    â€œI see. Haven’t lived there in a while, but accents die hard.”
    â€œWelcome to Nashville,” I said.
    I removed the napkin and cleaned the powder from A.J.’s face. I touched her neck. The pulse seemed strong enough. I took her cheeks gently between my fingers, moved her head from side to side. She didn’t moan. I slid my fingers under her head, felt a damp spot. I lifted her head from the concrete shard it had struck. Luke pulled it away and I lay her head back down, on the napkin.
    Suddenly, another light flashed on, a big one coming from behind me, from the direction from which Candy Sommerton’s voice had come. It was different from the other light, less pure, more yellowy: a big, industrial flashlight. I looked over at a strangely inverted face.
    Candy Sommerton was lying not far from her new camera operator, Washington Waverly, who was about three feet away to the right. They were both on their backs, their legs raised slightly higher and bent at the knees, resting on rubble. They looked like astronauts in one of the old Gemini space capsules, wide-eyed and alert. The camera was half buried by debris, the lens crushed. I took all that in before the cameraman turned the flashlight back toward me. I imagined it came from the utility belt he was wearing.
    Benjamin shut his phone to conserve the battery while, under the glow of the flashlight, I picked through the icebergs of rubble on my way to the newshounds. The bottoms of their legs, from about the knee downward, were lost in a stack of Sheetrock and wood that was stacked at least five feet high. I could see nothing in the darkness beyond, but I knew what was there: a roughly six foot high room with an oil burner, the water heater, and the water mains that ran toward and then under the street.
    â€œWell, pickle me pink,” I said as I started over.
    â€œThat’s a little flip under the circumstances, don’t you think?” the newscaster asked.
    â€œUnder tense circumstances, that’s what I do,” I replied. “I get flip. You should see my divorce transcripts.” I reached the duo and took the flashlight. I ran it up and down the wall of debris. “I think you’d better stay there—I’m afraid of what might happen if I tried to move anything.”
    â€œHuman Jenga,” Waverly said.
    I smiled. “Welcome to the Borsht Belt South.”
    He smiled up at me weakly. Candy was busy rotating her jaw, pushing an index finger around and about behind her ears, apparently trying to pop them.
    â€œIf you two are finished smart alecking, what the hell’re we going to do?” Candy asked.
    I shined the flashlight up and down, then back and forth across the wall of debris. It looked like a stage set from here, complete with ominous props, a cast in jeopardy, dramatic lighting.
    â€œThe first thing we’re going to do is get everyone to the other side of this mound,” I decided.
    â€œWhy?” Candy asked.
    â€œBecause the floor above is the dining area and the street—probably a lot more sound than what’s directly on top of us. Benjamin? Luke?”
    â€œYes?” they answered in unison.
    â€œThere’s a spot to the right—see it?” I shined my light toward the right, where the wall that was piled on Candy and her cameraman dipped lower and lower, like some Roman ruin. It was only about three feet high at its lowest point. “Let’s get everyone over there. Once they’re on the other side, I’m going to try and get these two out.”
    â€œTry?” Candy cried.
    â€œIf this stuff on top of you falls forward, you’ll be a lot worse