Free Cody's Varsity Rush by Todd Hafer

both directions. He exhaled shakily and tried the driver’s-side door to see if it would open. It resisted at first but then gave way with a metallic creak that sent a shiver shooting down his spine. He half expected Weitz to tumble out at his feet, but there was no movement.
    Cody dropped to his knees, trying to get a better look at Weitz from underneath. Most of the blood appeared to be coming from his nose, which Cody figured he had smashed on the steering wheel, or maybe the windshield, which was now a spiderweb of cracks.
    â€œWeitz,” he said again, trying to fill his voice with authority, assurance. “I hope you can hear me. Look, I’m going to run for help. I’m running to Baker’s to call an ambulance—maybe I’ll be able to flag down a car on the way. So if you can hear me, hang on, okay? I’m gonna get help. I’m gonna pray for you. You should pray too.”
    Cody placed a hand on Weitz’s shoulder for just a moment, then turned and bounded toward the road.
    â€œOkay, God,” Cody gasped as he struggled to find a fast pace that he could sustain for a while, “I guess I’m doing the right thing, but this is trippy. Help Weitz—hang on. After all that’s happened, it would be cool if he could survive this and turn his life around.”
    Cody did a half turn, running backward for a few steps so he could look back at the crash site. Still no truck in flames.
    I wish Pork Chop could see this , he thought. Not so he ’ d think I was a hero or anything, but so he ’ d learn that God does make a difference in a person ’ s life. Because if it weren ’ t for God, I ’ d be really tempted to leave Weitz ’ s sorry carcass out there .
    Cody quieted his thoughts for a moment. He thought he heard the distant hum of tires on asphalt. He strained his eyes, studying the ribbon of highway ahead of him.
    Then he saw it. A gray dot, coming his way. “All right,” he panted. “Help at last!”
    The dot drew closer. It was a small sedan. Maybe a Civic or a Corolla.
    He began waving his hands above his head—as if doing jumping jacks. The car was only a football field away now but not slowing down. Cody waved even more frantically.
    The car gave two short bursts on the horn—“hello honks,” his mom had called them, as it sped by. Then he heard a fading female voice, “Yeah, we see ya, little hottieeeeee!”
    Cody wagged his head in frustration. “Never thought I’d be bummed to hear something like that,” he gasped.
    When he saw another car approaching, he knew he would have to be more assertive. He moved from the shoulder to the middle of the oncoming traffic lane. Please , God , he pleaded, don ’ t let me get flattened by a car while trying to save Weitz ’ s life. That would be just too weird and sad. I ’ m trying to do the right thing, but I don ’ t wanna become roadkill on that guy ’ s account!
    As the vehicle drew closer, Cody realized it wasn’t a car. It was a motorcycle—a big one. He went into waving mode again, whipping his arms around like a crazed aerobics instructor.
    â€œThank God,” he panted, as he heard the driver gearing down.
    The Harley-Davidson was as big as a horse. Cody marveled at its size as the driver maneuvered his hog to the shoulder.
    Cody waited till the driver killed the engine before gasping, “Accident—Call 911.”
    The driver, clean-shaven and thinner than Cody’s stereotype of Harley men, slid a pair of dark sunglasses up to his slightly receding hairline. “Accident?” he said calmly. “Where?”
    Cody turned and stabbed his right forefinger to the east. “Back there.”
    He wanted to say more but found it hard to link more than a few words at a time. He wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or panic. “About a half mile.”
    The driver nodded and angled his Harley toward town.