NO. I stand paralyzed, vibrations shivering up my brain-stem. The front door is open.
Sprint forward. Sprint past Spyder's Timberlands. Sprint past his jeans. Sprint past his red and black shirt. Sprint past his spinal cord with a slug in his nervous system. Sprint past his shoulder blades spouting lung fluid. Sprint past his clean haircut and past his blank eyes. Sprint past his heirloom Colt Custom, what he has of his incarcerated father, sprint past my relic revolver that I drop alongside it. Sprint and kneel and slide to Izzy. NO.
Izzy's sitting on the floor, back against the couch, heels on the carpet toward Spyder. I embrace his head near. OH GOD NO.
“Izzy?” He gazes up.
His teeth are smeared sanguine and he's gurgling and his stomach's spilling.
“WHY'D YOU COME IN? WHAT HAPPENED?”
His throat clogs and he gulps. Then he slops out swallows of blood.
“IT'S OKAY, IZZY. IT'S OKAY.”
I got to get him out of here. Or call an ambulance? No, we have to drive. We have to go.
When I glance back up to him, his pupils lose their sparkle. “Izzy?” I fondle his head closer. “Izzy?” I stroke his cheeks with my thumbs and rock his head. “Izzy?” I shake his head. “Izzy?” I shake hard so the tuffs of his hair bounce. Shake hard so his eyes smile at me again. Shake hard so his eyes twinkle. “IZZY.” I gasp for air. “WHAT HAPPENED?”
Whirl back toward the kitchen door. That's five bullet holes. Check Spyder's back. Three...that's only three. Twist to Izzy and his shirt swamping with crimson and the foggy mirror in his eyes.
“IZZY, I'M SORRY. I'M SO SORRY. WHY'D YOU COME IN, WHY'D YOU COME IN?”
Then I notice it. I notice it in his flopped tiny little hand. A shank he made from cla**room scissors and hid in his backpack. This isn't true.
I collapse against him. We kiss foreheads and my tongue bleeds onto his chin and the hollow wound in my cheek slurps sludge onto him. And I sob. “This isn't true.”
SHAKE HARD SO HIS EYES SMILE. SHAKE HARD SO HIS EYES TWINKLE.