Chapter 3: A Hole

3
A Hole

Four years ago, June 4^th, at 9:16 pm, 13-year-old Savvy Burns stands in line for the check out.  He has exactly 11 minutes left of his life.  And he doesn’t know it.

Where did he think he would die?  What’s the last thing he thought he would see?  Perhaps a hospital.  Friends gathered all around.  Flowers.  Love.  Tears.  Hugs.
Perhaps that’s why death takes people by surprise.  Sometimes, it’s not in a hospital.  Sometimes it’s somewhere death isn’t supposed to be, like behind a convenience store.  Sometimes you’re alone when it comes.  There are no flowers.  No love.  You just die.  The end.

There are only three souls in this store.  The middle-aged cashier lady, the young man with the thick, alcohol scented breath, and the skinny, part Hispanic boy with the blind right eye.  In precisely four minutes, the young man is going to shoot Savvy.  In exactly nine minutes, Savvy will be dead.

Savvy pays for his water bottle, shoves his wallet into the abyss of his sweatpants pocket, and starts for the glass doors.  He is followed.  If he walked a little faster, could he have avoided his death?

9:17 pm.
Instead of walking straight through the parking lot, Savvy cuts around the corner of the store.  Was he hoping to mislead his follower?  He speed-walks through the alleyway.  A stinging white light protrudes from the side of the store wall.  The other wall is only a brick structure as tall as him.  He jumps, grabbing the top of the wall, the jagged brick bites into his bare arm that holds his water bottle.  He pulls himself up to his stomach.

9:18 pm.
A fist clenches the hood of his jacket, and jerks.  Savvy falls back to his feet and looks behind him.
A gun stares him in the face.  It’s small and black.  But not to Savvy.  To Savvy, it’s a cannon.
“Give me your money,” the voice behind cannon demands.  “Give me your wallet. Give me your wallet!”

The human repeats that sentence too many times for Savvy to keep track, and the more he says it, the more spit he uses in his words, the less interpretable the words become. 

Wallet.  What’s a wallet?

“Give me your wallet!”  the gun screams.  Or the man.  “I’ll shoot you!”

“Don’t shoot me,” Savvy hears his voice break from his dry mouth.  His mind pleads.  I don’t want to die.  I don’t want to die.  Please let me live.  Please let me live.

9:19 pm.

Life never seemed so wonderful.  He never wanted it more than he did then.

Help.  He needs help.  He wants Domino.  Or even his Mom.  This was the first time he has ever wanted his Mom beside him.

Police.

Call the police.

“I’ll shoot you!”

“Okay-okay-okay-okay-” Savvy’s breath is lost, his voice drifts, and he reaches into his pocket.  The left pocket.  His hands tremble, uncontrollable, but grabs his phone, and raises it to his ear.

9:20 pm.

‘Click-BANG!’

He hears his chest rip open, and it keeps taring wider and wider. As though a tube embeds through his chest and expands.  The explosion still filters through his numb head.
His every muscle like stone.  His lungs frozen.  Then his muscles betray him, and he falls.  He is caught by a cement ground, leaving him with nothing but shaking limbs and a poison that spreads from his chest up his neck, shoulders, and legs.

Hands.  Hands dig into pants pocket.  They grab his wrists and yank.  Savvy tries to scream through his teeth, but screaming hurts.

He’s left behind the dumpster, laying on his back.

The footsteps shuffle away into nothingness.

9:21 pm.

He watches the fluttering shadows of moth wings dance in the humming light.  He could still smell the smoke.  The alcohol breath. Still feel.  Still see.  How is he still alive?  How is his mind still sending information to his senses while screaming at the same time, “There’s a hole in my chest-there’s a hole in my chest-there’s a hole in my chest...”

Phone.

He forces his arm to move, sliding along the  sticky, moist ground.  Phone.  Phone.  Please may there be a phone.

His fingers touch smooth glass.  The glass reads:

9:22 pm.

He found it!  His dying spirits leap, the corners of his mouth pull into a smile.  He wraps his fingers around the phone.  A cold bolt of pain shoots through him.  He cries, and types.  His eyes closed tight.  He doesn’t have to see the screen to know what numbers his thumb taps.  It’s all muscle memory.

He should have called 911.  He really should have.

He doesn’t.

He types the number he knows best.

Slowly.  Carefully.  Eyes still shut.  Not breathing.  He lifts the phone to his face, sets it beside him and leans his head over the cracked screen.

Beeep….Beeep…

Answer it.  For crying out loud-just answer it.  Domino, don’t let Savvy die like this.

Every beep wastes two heart beats. 

9:23 pm.

Then Domino finally picks up the phone.  He could have answered it sooner.  He could have had more time.  Maybe if Domino answered the phone sooner, things would be different.

“Yo.”

“Hi Domino.”

“Hay.  What’s up?”

“I…”  maybe Savvy shouldn’t say it.  He didn’t want to tell him.  He just wanted to talk.  Talk like this wasn’t their last conversation.  Just talk Domino.  For once in your stupid life-just talk.

“You what?  I think you’re breaking up.  Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you.”

“You sound sick.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you have?”

“I got…Uh-got…shot.” His words don’t sound right.  No, they can’t be right.  Getting shot is something that only happens behind a TV, or in a game of poison-dart frog.

“…Savvy?” 

It hurt too much.

“Savvy?...What happened?  What did you say?  Savvy!  Start talking!”  Domino yells.

Savvy opens his mouth, the pain restrains him, but he pries out the words, “I got shot.”

“Wait, what?-You’re shot-are you shot?  With-a-with gun?  Savvy!”  He cusses and screams, “You’re shot?  Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re messing with me Savvy, I’ll shoot myself!”

“No-no-no-no-Domino-”

“Where did you get shot!?”

Savvy’s eyes dart down to ground.  The hard, but warm ground.  Warm with…Him.  No.  That’s not his blood.  It’s too dark.  Too much…it touches the side of the wall and slowly trickles under the dumpster.

“In the chest…A little lower…I think…It hurts Domino-it hurts-it hurts-I can’t-”

“It’s-”  The broken breathing on the other end of the phone interrupts his sentence, “It’s okay.”

A breath. “It’s okay, Savvy.  The doctors will take care of you.  It’s okay, just keep breathing-”

Savvy’s muscles finally stop shaking.  He stares at the shadows on the cement wall.

“Yeah.  The doctors…The doctors’ll take care of me.”

“Oh…Oh no, no, no.” A pause.  “Where are you?” Domino demands.

Savvy just stares.

“Call 911.  Hang up right now and call 911.”

But he doesn’t answer.  He just listens.

“Do you hear me!?  Call 911!  Do it right now or I’ll hang up on you-”

“Don’t hang up on me!”  Savvy screams.  His throat burns and the walls blur.

The breathing on the other end of the phone is raspy, off rhythm. 

“Where are you Savvy?  I’m gonna come get you.  I’m coming right now.  Where are you?”

“You’re on vacation,” Savvy whispered.

“I don’t care.  We’re going right now to find you.  Just stay there.  Where are you?”

“The alley behind the store.  It’s nice and warm here.” The pain numbs, and he smiles.  His words slur, but he used them. “How’s weather over there?”

It took several seconds before the broken reply, “It’s nice here.  It’s…Really nice here, Savvy.”

9:26 pm.

“Good.  I guess...I’ll see you…When you get back.  Domino.”

“Okay, yeah.  We’ll do that.”

“We’ll…hang out…at your house.”

“Sure.  We’ll-we’ll meet at my house…Sounds good.”

“Domino?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.  I feel better now.”

“Okay….Savvy?.....Hay, Savvy?.....Savvy?”

9:27 pm.