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"He's too disoriented," someone said. "He'll never make it."
"Shut up and let Victor talk," another voice said.
"Move around to the other side of the console," said Victor. "You'll see a passageway on your left."
Wit tried moving. His feet wouldn't come. "My ... feet."
"Your boot magnets are initiated," said Victor. "I'll decrease their strength from here. Get ready to launch."
Wit pulled again, and this time one foot came free. He pushed off with the other and flew to the wall, making his way around the console.
His nose was bleeding worse now. There was nothing he could do to stop it. His hand couldn't reach inside his visor.
"Where's Imala?" someone asked.
"Getting close," said Victor. "She's going as slow as she can. We need to hurry."
"I'll get there," said Wit. "It's not far."
His insides were burning, like someone had built a fire in his gut. His eyes were burning, too. He wanted desperately to rub them.
Wit found the passageway. Victor told him which direction to go. Wit obeyed.
He and Father were tossing the football. The big one, the one they used in the NFL. It hurt every time Wit caught it. Like catching a big inflated stone.
Father was drawing the run on the palm of his hand, explaining a buttonhook. "You run out downfield. Then after twenty yards, about where that tree is, you turn back to the line of scrimmage and I hit you with the pass." Wit nodded. He was eight years old and big for his age.
The ball hit him in the face, square in the nose, blood was everywhere, all over his shirt. Momma would be furious. It was a school shirt. He wouldn't cry, though. Not with Father watching. The tears were there in his eyes, ready to jump out, but he wouldn't let them come. "Don't lean your head back, son. Lean it forward. Let it drip into the grass." Mother came out with the dishrag. Wit could taste the blood in his mouth. "This is why they wear helmets," Father had said, wiping gently at Wit's nose. "Does it feel broken?"
"No, sir."
"You sure?"
"Yes, sir. I just hit it hard is all."
"You caught it with your face is what you did."
"You should use one of those foam balls, David. He's too small for the real thing."
"No I'm not, Momma. I just caught it wrong. It was my fault. Please, Daddy. Let's do it again."
Father chuckled. "Your nose is still bleeding son."
Your nose is still bleeding.
Your nose is still bleeding.
Your nose is still bleeding.
"Captain! Can you hear me?"
Wit jerked awake. He was in a corridor. Floating. Alone. A dead Formic floated to his right.
"Captain. Wit. It's Victor. Can you hear me?"
"Yes ... I'm here."
"You're not responding. You missed the turn. You have to go back."
