Free Critical Injuries by Joan Barfoot Page B

feet, she will have to remember this: that even merely treading through an ordinary, predictable, regular day is a blessing. She will have to keep in mind — be mindful of , as Alix has taken to saying — what she had that she earned and deserves and desires, and has for this moment lost.
    She will set herself to remembering to remember all this. It’s a small project, but in this circumstance it’s almost a miracle to have any kind of project at all. This is one she can get her teeth into; if she could feel her teeth, if she could sink them into anything. For the time being she can bare them, smiling, at Lyle, like the wolf in Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s bed but looking, she really does hope, somewhat kinder.

A Simple Plan
    They keep asking what happened. “Tell us what you did, son,” says the bigger, older one. He’s the same one who, out in the field, as Roddy stared up at impassive dogs and into the stars, happy as hell, suddenly appeared at the edge of his field of vision, arms outstretched and rigid, in his hands a gun aimed right at Roddy.
    â€œDon’t move, son,” he said. “Just stay perfectly still. You understand what I’m saying? Tell me you’re not going to move a muscle. Right now. Tell me.”
    â€œOkay,” Roddy said.
    â€œHold,” said another voice, and the two dogs shifted away, out of view. They didn’t go far. He could still hear them breathing.
    The other guy, younger, knelt carefully beside Roddy, eyed him warily. He passed his hands carefully, remotely, all over Roddy’s body. He nodded at the bigger guy, who said, “Okay now, stand up, real slow.”
    It was like he was old. It was almost painful, rolling slightly and getting his hands and feet in position to push himself up. It didn’t help that while he was still sitting, the younger guy took his hands and pulled them behind him and fastened his wrists together. There was no click. The binding felt like plastic, not metal. Roddy guessed things were different than they were on TV. The cop took one arm and lifted it upwards. Roddy almost bounced when he hit his feet finally.
    The other cop, the one who called him son , stepped back. He was still aiming his gun: a black hole. Roddy wanted to say nobody needed a gun, but he thought maybe he shouldn’t say anything. He couldn’t tell what they might do. He wasn’t scared, exactly, because this couldn’t be happening, it wasn’t real enough for fear. Just, it was so strange, out here in the field in the night, the young cop holding a flashlight on him like this was a stage, a spotlight, a play.
    â€œLet’s move.”
    Returning through the fields to the road, two flashlights now directing their steps, wasn’t easy. Especially with his arms behind him, it was hard to keep his balance, not stumble. In this small way the fields, their slight humps and hollows, their hidden pitfalls and stoninesses, became strange to him; unfriendly.
    The two cops grunted now and then, one on each side of him and slightly behind. He could hear the hard breathing of the bigger, older one, and the dogs padding along. Nobody spoke. Nobody spoke when they got to the car, either. The younger cop put his hand on top of Roddy’s head as he eased him into the back seat, braceleted and alone.
    The roads looked like new country, like nothing he’d ever travelled before. The outskirts of town, the rows of houses, the street lights, everything might as well have been in some other country, in Europe maybe, where he’d never been. Passing the corner of the street that led to the street where he lived right up till a few hours ago, he thought, “Grandma’s there, a block away, right this second, and my dad,” but it felt like where they really were was in a parallel universe.
    Anyway, where they really were was at the police station: his fat, distressed, red-eyed grandmother, his pale burly