blocks had slid away, lowering the Volkswagen just enough to pin Tom underneath. It was only by a hairâs breadth that he escaped being crushed. âFinton!â he yelled. âCome here!â
Within seconds, Finton was on his knees beside his fatherâs blueclad leg, looking underneath the car and asking if he was all right.
âSee can ya pull me out, bâyâJesusâ sake! Hurry up!â
Finton positioned himself at his fatherâs feet. A quick look around confirmed that no one else had come running, so he grabbed his fatherâs ankles and pulled.
âHarder, bây! Put some muscle into it!â
âIâm trying,â he said, panic setting in. âIâll be right back.â He scurried outside and yelled, âSomebody! Help! Dadâs stuck under a car!â Within seconds, three men came running from the scrap yard, assessed the situation and, within a short time, two menâand Fintonâlifted the small car while another man pulled Tom from beneath the VW. His father was dazed, even a little shocked, as he sat on the concrete floor, holding his grease-blackened, quivering hand in front of him. Blood dripped onto the concrete between his legs and pooled into a dark circle.
âWeâve gotta get you to the hospital, Tom,â said the oldest of the three men, with grey sideburns and wearing a baseball cap with âPatâ on the front. Finton recognized him as Pat Taylor, who owned the garage.
âIâm coming,â said Finton.
âNo,â said Tom. âStay here with Pat. These men will take care oâ me.â
âNoâIâm going.â
âIâll get my car,â said one of the men, and the other one followed him, while Pat stayed behind and bent down to assess Tomâs hand.
âLooks pretty bad, bâyâIâll get ya a clean rag. Must be one somewhere. Look after yer old man, young fella.â He gave Fintonâs hair a quick scrub and went off to look.
âGive it here,â said Finton.
âWhaâ?â Tom looked startled, as if the boy was speaking a foreign language.
âLet me see itâquick.â
Appearing stunned, Tom held out his trembling hand for Finton to see. It was bruised so ugly that Finton couldnât look at it. The blood ran freely and was particularly dark around the wound in his fatherâs palm, where the skin had been scraped and pulled. The bluish discolouration reminded him of a cut heâd had in his own palm once when heâd wrecked Homerâs bike in the lane. That one had healed within seconds and had needed only to have the rocks picked out of it. This one was much worse.
Carefully, he cupped his hands and placed one on each side of his fatherâs bloody palm. He drew a deep breath. The hand quivered violently, but Finton managed to steady it enough. Within seconds, his fatherâs breathing began to stabilize. âHoly Mary Mother of God,â Finton kept saying over and over. Eyes closed, he imagined a place far awayâhigh above the garage, in a different dimension, beyond the earth and its planetsâand, at last, his Planet of Solitude.
âWeâre here,â he said and glanced down to see his fatherâs head in his lap, peaceful and happy, no angry lines on his face. âEverythingâs okay, Dad. Iâm here.â
Tom didnât speak, just kept beaming up at his son.
âThere,â Finton said. At the sound of a voice, he opened his eyes. He was holding his fatherâs hand, while Tom was sitting up, head laid back against the side of the Volkswagen, his face twisted in anguish and appearing ready to pass out.
âThis should do the trick,â said Pat, getting down on his knees beside the patient and snapping open a first-aid kit. He pulled out a gauze bandage and began to unroll it. âThis might hurt a bit, Tom. Hold out your hand.â
With glazed eyes, Tom scrutinized his
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