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“Rigel, hold on, I’m calling 911. Stay calm.” I pressed 911 into my phone.
Rigel struggled to breathe, his chest shuddering. His body trembled. Blood foamed at his mouth.
“Oh my God!” The pickup driver ran over, sobbing. “Barry? Barry! Is he…okay? Is he okay? Please let him be okay! I shouldn’t have been on my phone!”
Rigel moaned in agony. A dark stain appeared on his T-shirt. Blood from his crushed chest.
The 911 call connected, and I said, “Emergency, please send an ambulance! Glen Meade Apartments in Goshen! A man was hit by a pickup truck!”
The dispatcher asked, “Sir, what is your name?”
I told her. “But please, hurry!”
“I’ve dispatched an ambulance. Is he breathing?”
“Yes, yes, but hurry!”
Neighbors began to gather behind me, talking. “Did you see that?” “He went flying!” “That guy was chasing Barry!” “Who hit him?” “Terry! She was on the phone!” “It was her fault!” “No, he ran in front of the truck!” “I missed the whole thing!” “Whoisthis guy?” “Does he live here?”
I rose, stepping away to hear the dispatcher.
“Sir, what is his condition—”
“Whoareyou?” an old man asked, pointing at me. The neighbors formed a shocked half circle, pointing and talking. “You, who are you?” “What’s your name?” “Where do you live?” “What are you doing here?”
“I…I’m on with 911.” I edged away, phone to my ear, trying to hear the dispatcher. “Hurry, please,” I told her, but the old man dogged me.
“Isaid, what’s your name?” Two other neighbors followed him, taking videos.
“Excuse me.” I walked away, listening to the dispatcher and texting John.
Come quick glen meade apts
•••
The next half hour was a nightmarish blur. The ambulance took Rigel, and the police escorted the pickup driver to her house, only a few doors away. Cops erected a makeshift perimeter with flares. Cruisers blocked the scene around the pickup truck, which stood askew with its door open. Accident reconstruction techs arrived in logo SUVs.
I felt shaken and horrified. I didn’t know if Rigel would survive. I didn’t know what would happen to me. My thoughts raced over one another. The cops would ask questions. They’d arrest me. I’d go back to prison. Neighbors collected on the sidewalk and lawns, pointing, talking, and taking videos of me and the scene. A cop told me to stay inside the perimeter, center stage in the worst show ever.
I looked over to see John hustling through the perimeter, his white shirt bright in the darkness, his tie flying. “TJ!” he called out, motioning.
“John!” I hurried to him, panicky. “John, I think Rigel could die, I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.” John took my arm calmly. “Come with me. Where’s your car?”
“Ahead.” I pointed, my hand shaking. John led me from the scene.Cops hurried by, but none stopped us. “I recognized him from my home group and—”
“Shh. We’ll talk later.” John squeezed my arm, walking briskly, face forward.
“But the cops are going to ask, I have to explain, I was chasing him and—”
“Quiet.” John shot me a look. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“But what do I do? What do I say? I think we tell them everything. I think it all comes out—”
“Shutup.” We reached my car, and John opened the door and pushed me into the driver’s seat. “Get inside. Wait here. They’re going to take you in for questioning—”
“Oh no.” A bolt of fear raced through me.
