The Medicine Show (pt 2).

His wrist is broken; he’s sure of that. He holds it to his chest, shivering and dripping as he drags himself out of the river, not sure what happened; he’d don that jump a dozen times when he was a kid.

Hey, Kyle says, stumbling around to the driver’s side of the Pinto.

Oh thank god, the driver says, oh jesus oh fuck help me get out of here.

Kyle tries the door but it won’t open; he reaches through the missing window and tries the inside handle and then the passenger door too, but they don’t budge. And the guy is enormous, four hundred pounds probably, so there’s no way he can climb out.

The Pinto slips; the man moans. He’s an indian, Kyle thinks, or a native is what you’re supposed to say, one of the Illini if he’s with the tribe that works at the casino. His face is as brown and cracked as a drought, and his black hair is parted into two braids that curve around his face like horns – but his body is what’s amazing, spilling over the sides of the seat and bubbling up around him, his arms like flippers with wings of blubber hanging off of them. Kyle has never seen anyone so big, didn’t know it was possible.

I don’t know what to do, Kyle says. He floats around to the hatchback, pulling on it, and then tries to find a rock; the Pinto slides forward another couple of inches, and although the shore is nothing but large, sharp boulders there are no loose stones he can find.

Do something, the Indian says. Hey.

I’m trying, god dammit. The river is cold and making his legs cramp; Kyle pounds on the hatchback glass and even tries to elbow it, which hurts like hell, but it won’t break.

He drifts to the door. I can’t get it open, he says, his sides heaving.

You got to. The Indian grabs the door and yanks on it. You got to do something.

The Pinto moves. The river water is filling the cab up, climbing up his sweat pants.

Get somebody, the Indian says, fucking go get somebody what are you doing HELP!

His voice ricochets off of the underside of the bridge, scaring the birds.

I can run, Kyle says, teeth chattering. It would take me forever to get somebody. You’d be here all by yourself. There’s should have been a car by now I don’t get it.

They both look up at the bridge, waiting. No one appears.

Kyle looks again but there is no stick, no rock, no anything to break the hatch, and even if he could, the guy is so damned big….in a few minutes the car is going to go all the way into the river and the Indian is going to drown. Nothing will prevent this; the world has decided in this time and place that this thing must happen.

It’s not my fault, Kyle thinks frantically; he climbs out, struggling to find footing on rocks that are as slick as ice cubes. His wrist hurts terribly. It’s not my fault, I tried.

What are you doing? The Indian’s voice is high and reedy. Where are you GOING?!

He hadn’t realized he was walking away. Oh shit, Kyle says, stopping. Oh god, oh shit.

The Pinto slips again and this time the river current lifts it and drops it a foot to the right, and dark green water is flooding the cabin, and the Indian screams.