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“Someone call 911!” a man shouts.
A haze of head-splittingly loud voices come from all directions. I can’t do anything except listen. My brain feels like it just got into a ring with Mike Tyson.
“Is everyone alright?”
“That guy got hit!”
“You fucking idiot! Do you know what you just did? Are you drunk?!”
My arm is stretched out on the pavement in front of me, and my hand is closed tightly around something. Everything else is a blurry haze.
I slowly open my hand. Something is sitting in my palm.
What is that?
A little wooden figurine carved like a bird.
“Don’t worry,” someone says as blackness tightens around my vision like a closing tunnel. “You’re going to be just fine.”
