Page 10 of Catching Camila

He hit the shed wall and slid down. His mind was a bag of cotton, his arms useless sandbags.

Heat flooded his cheek, his eye socket, down to his jaw. He waited for more pain, like his cranium would crack open. Yet, the throbbing pain was abating. He put his hand to his face. Was his cheek still there?

“What the…?” the man said, astonished.

John opened his eyes.

The man examined the mangled shovel. The steel was dented where it had met John's head.

His head? His head fought a shovel and won?

A cold chill ran up John's arms as he looked at the metal blade. The pain was nearly gone now.

This couldn't be happening.

The man watched as John pulled himself up. The homeowner’s face flashed with first terror and then fury. “You think you’re just gonna rob me again?” the man said. “Not this time.”

He dropped the shovel and grabbed for John.

John stumbled into the corner, knocking a shelf off the wall. The man’s fingers clawed at him, curled into his throat. Then they were choking, choking.

Thumbs dug into John's Adam's apple. The man's brown irises had receded to wild, round pupils. Spittle flecked the corners of his five o’clock shadow.

“Don't!” John choked. His air dwindled. Stars danced across his vision.

John slammed both palms into the center of the man's chest. Instantly the choking hands were gone, and the attacker, too. The man sailed backward, arms flailing, shirt rippling. He slammed through the shed doors, smashing them open.

They thwacked back and forth wildly. There was a thud somewhere on the grass beyond. Then silence.

The bees buzzed madly.

John stared at the space where the man had been. He’d only wanted to breathe. He’d only shoved him.

Shaking, John pulled through the shed, past the mangled shovel and over the weed whacker. He stepped onto the grass, one hand on the door to keep his footing. The body lay six or seven feet from the shed. He went to it, barely breathing, the dry July lawn crinkling under his feet.

What have I done?

He leaned over the body. He was about to lose his lunch, but he had to see if he'd killed him. The man lay supine on the lawn, one arm straight out, the other tucked beneath. His flip-flop had landed in a flowerbed. John bent down and pressed his hand to the man's back.

The shirt was wet in the crease between the shoulder blades. Blood? No, only sweat. He listened for breathing. Oh God, let him be breathing.

The man’s chest rose and fell softly. John slumped back on his heels and blew out a breath. He rolled the man over. A welt swelled like a plump fruit on his right temple. Other than that, he looked okay.

Inside the house, a woman began screaming.

John dropped the man and bolted into the night.

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