The Interior by Lisa See

one of the skyscrapers on Bunker Hill. All Keith had to do was cross Grand, walk past the library, cross Fifth, then climb the “Spanish Steps” up to Hope. The distance wasn’t far, but downtown wasn’t all that safe at night after the day workers had gone home to the suburbs.
    “I can drive you up there if you want.”
    “No, I’ll walk. It’ll do me good. Clear my head.”
    They shook hands. “Lunch next week?” David asked.
    “Sure, I’ll give you a call.”
    Grand was a one-way street downtown. Keith looked right, saw nothing, then stepped off the curb. Up the street David saw headlights through the mist. Keith was halfway across the road, oblivious to the car. For a moment David thought the car was going to hit Keith, but then the driver decelerated.
    To David it seemed then that everything slowed down so that he could see every detail as, maybe even before, it happened. A hand with a gun in it reached out the rear left window and swung toward David. He heard the gunfire and saw the flashes of light from the muzzle. Instinctively he fell to the ground. He heard screams behind him—probably other customers who’d left the restaurant just behind David and Keith and were on their way to the valet. David heard the bullets ricochet off the wall and felt pieces of stone and stucco rain down on him. From his position on the sidewalk, he saw Keith look back and left over his shoulder. If he’d looked right, he would have seen the car and hustled out of the way. Instead the car hit him. Keith’s body flew up into the air, moving fast, arms and legs flailing, then slammed into the back wall of the library with a sickening thud. The car sped away, skidding as it turned the corner.
    There was a period of silence, then David heard behind him the clatter of high heels on the sidewalk, the sound of men shouting, and someone begin to whimper in pain. All the while he didn’t take his eyes off the motionless form of Keith across the street. Shakily David got to his feet, staggered across the asphalt, and knelt next to his friend. The bones in Keith’s left arm were jagged sticks of white protruding from flesh. His legs were at unnatural angles, not moving. Blood gushed from a deep gash in one of his legs, probably where the chrome of the bumper had cut into flesh. David felt Keith’s neck for a pulse. Somehow he was still alive.
    “Help! Somebody help us!” David screamed.
    David had never taken a CPR class, but he had an idea of how it worked. But should he tilt Keith’s head back to give mouth-to-mouth? Maybe Keith had a broken neck—this seemed likely given that his limbs weren’t moving. Should David massage Keith’s chest? Maybe the internal injuries were too great; maybe David would cause more damage. At least he could do something about the blood. He put his hand over the gash and pressed hard to stanch the flow. Just then Keith opened his eyes. He moaned. When he tried to speak, blood bubbled out of his mouth and his eyes widened in terror.
    “It’s all right,” David said. “I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”
    Looking at the blood that oozed out over his hands and the blood that had now spread out like a halo around Keith’s head, David knew that what he’d said was a lie. His friend was dying and he was terrified.
    In the distance David heard a siren. “You hear that? It’s an ambulance. Hang on. The paramedics will be here soon.”
    Keith tried to speak, but again all that came out was a ragged gurgle and a froth of foaming blood. Then Keith’s body went into convulsions. Blood spattered the wall, the sidewalk, David. Then Keith took a last anguished gasp for air and went still.
    Kneeling next to the body, blood on his hands and clothes, David did what he usually did in an emergency. He retreated into linear thought. When the police arrived, he’d help them with their report. He’d seen the Jeep: black, newer model, but he hadn’t caught the license plate. He’d say that he’d been