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bleepin' bin Laden.
    The bleeping was real, alarms from the cars crashed along
University Avenue. People cried out, their hands on their heads,
looking skyward as if trying to find someone to blame and
someone to save them.
    Surely Kimmie was in the gated estates where no bomb could
get her. Please, God was all the prayer Logan could summon,
because he had work to do. He stood, pain like a second blast
erupting in his lower back. Must be a broken vertebra or
ruptured disk. If that was the worst of it, he'd be grateful.
    The Circle blazed, the greenery dissolved in flame. If he and
Pappas had been on the bike path instead of the boulevard,
they'd be feeding the conflagration right now.
    Why was the fire silent?
    Logan's hearing had become selective, that was it. Which
must be why he wasn't hearing sirens though it had been at least two minutes, and maybe more, since Pappas had called for
the bomb squad. Yet he could hear the car alarms and people
crying, cursing, screaming.

    One motorist-insurance info in hand-motioned to a
woman to roll down her car window. The familiar amidst the
terrible.
    Logan held out Pappas's sneakers. "Come on, man. We've got
to get moving."
    "My shoulder is dislocated. You need to fix it for me. Grab
here and here." Pappas pointed to a spot above his elbow and
another behind his shoulder. "Now pull that way, and when I
yell, push it into the socket."
    "The ambulances are coming-"
    "Do it!"
    Logan did.
    Pappas cried out once, then hung his head. "OK, OK. It's
manageable now, but I need to splint it."
    Logan ripped up his own shirt and fashioned a sling. Pappas
pulled it over his head and gingerly slid his arm in.
    Logan tied Pappas's sneakers for him, thinking of this
morning when he had buckled Kimmie's sandals. All he
wanted was to dash up to Walden Estates and make sure she
was all right.
    And he would do that as soon as help arrived.
    A woman ran at him, cradling a young boy. "Someone help,
please! My son's not breathing!"
    Logan laid the boy on the grass, mindful of burning embers
all about. The boy's lips were blue and his eyes rolled back, only
white showing. No pulse and no respiration.
    "What happened, ma'am?"
    "Josh was out with his friends, skateboarding. There was the
blast, and he took a bad spill. I ran out, and he sat up and said,
`My head hurts.' Then he just ... went over." The woman sobbed,
took a breath, and found her voice again. "Please, help him."

    "Does he have any condition I should know about?"
    "A seizure disorder, but it's controlled. He takes medicine."
    It had been a good minute since the bomb. Almost four
now since Pappas had called Central. Logan needed to begin
CPR, but he could paralyze this kid if he had a neck injury.
Then again, if he didn't revive him soon, that would be a moot
point.
    Logan tipped the boy's head back, squeezed the boy's nose,
and gave him a breath. The boy smelled like Doritos. The rise of
his chest meant his airway was clear.
    Logan began the chest compressions, remembering not to
press too hard.
    One two three four five. Breathe.
    "Come on, josh."
    One two three four five. Breathe. One two three four five.
    "I tried to call 911," the mother said. She was a thin woman
with spiked brown hair. "The phones are dead."
    One two three four five. Breathe. One two three four five.
    Time passed-one minute, maybe another. Where were the
paramedics?
    The blue in josh's lips faded. A guy in UPS brown tried to
put a shipping blanket under his head.
    "No. I need his airway open," Logan said. "But you could
cover his legs for me."
    He looked around, saw Pappas bending over a woman in a
yellow sundress. The cheerful color of her dress against cracked
pavement was an affront to America, where a woman had the
right to stroll on a sidewalk, sun splashing on her shouldersnot broken by a bomb no one saw coming.
    One two three four five. Breathe. One two three four five.
Breathe.
    The mother pressed her face to the sidewalk.