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to her horror, was pouring out all over her hands.
    She took him inside, grabbed the set of keys she had left on the kitchen counter, and took off for the hospital in Corpus Christi, eight miles south of Bedford.

     
    O n the ride, she took off the turtleneck under her sweater and wrapped it around his head like a turban, continually shaking him, afraid he would fall asleep. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? She wasn’t sure. On the highway she made a conscious effort to drive slowly. The way the rain fell against the windshield was like standing underneath a waterfall.
    She parked in the area designated for emergencies and carried him inside the sprawling building marked Mid-Maine Medical. A nurse hurried toward them and showed them the way to an examining room. Georgia laid him down on a long padded table, her hands still pressing hard against the wound.
    “Can you hear me?” Georgia asked. There was too much of it to be sure, but it looked like the flow of blood was waning. “Matthew!” she shouted, unaware that she had become completely hysterical.
    “Um,” he muttered. His eyes were almost closed.
    The doctor came in and pushed her aside, unwrapping the bloody turtleneck-shirt from his scalp. He was a short, stocky man with gray-yellow hair. “How’d this happen?” he asked.
    “Well, actually,” Georgia admitted, “he was jumping and I got in the way—”
    Matthew rose from his stupor. “Fell, thassssall,” he slurred with his eyes now completely closed. The doctor shrugged, turned back around, and began his examination.

     
    “J ust some coffee, thanks,” Georgia told the woman behind the register at the hospital cafeteria. The woman was small and wore a blue smock that snapped at the sides as part of her uniform. She craned her neck to see into Georgia’s face, then took in her bright red hair and massive body. Georgia realized she must look a sight with her wet, bloody clothes. Like a Viking come home from battle. Georgia pointed at the coffee on the counter.
    The woman shrugged, then added up the sale. Georgia paid and found a seat.
    The doctor had told her that Matthew was fine, possibly a mild concussion, the kind of thing that happens all the time. The bleeding wasn’t out of the ordinary—in fact he’d lost only a pint or two. By the time they’d gotten to the hospital it had pretty much clotted. The confusion he’d had on the steps was just shock. Still, he would have to stay overnight as a precaution. Fortunately, he was insured by Clott through her father. “Don’t worry,” Dr. Conway had said, patting her on the back, “They’re not made of bones, these kids. They’re all cartilage.”
    Georgia had stayed for the stitches. He was too tired to cry, or even object when she held his hand. Afterward, the Demerol worked its magic and he fell asleep. She finished filling out insurance forms, then left a message for her father, telling him that Matthew was fine, nothing she couldn’t handle; she’d see him tonight and explain.
    Now, she sat in the cafeteria. She would drive home after the shaking in her body subsided. This was nothing new, just an inevitable progression. Last year, he broke his arm trying to climb through his bedroom window for no other reason than he’d wanted to see if he could do it. When he was three, he swallowed a bottle of his grandfather’s digitalis because it was candy coated and that had been really fun: pouring ipecac down his throat and watching him throw up all night, hoping his heart wouldn’t explode.
    She sighed. It was probably something she should be used to by now. If he turned out anything like her, he’d be coming home drunk from junior high dances, or else he’d wander the Puff-N-Stop hours after curfew, so stoned he thought he saw God in the lines of his hand. Or maybe he’d even get a girl pregnant and decide to be a father in more than name. Now that would be cosmic justice.
    Georgia finished her coffee, slurping up that last