Marilyn stood stock-still with shock and fright, her hands clasped over her mouth, looking from the red bicycle to the still figure of the young man, who was lying face down a few feet away, and back to the bicycle. The back wheel was turning slowly. Otherwise, there was neither movement nor sound. Even the crickets seemed to have fallen silent.

"Oh my God!" she whispered. "Oh my God!"

She needed to help him, but she couldn't bring her limps to move.

Get help! Where from? Call the ambulance!How? In her shock, she didn't even know which street she was on.

Look after him! She didn't dare to go near him. She was afraid what she would see, if she did.

Get help!Get help!Get help!

That was the first thing, her mother had always told her: Get help. There was a fleeting moment in which Marilyn wanted to run home and wake her. But although it wasn't far, 15 minutes would pass easily running there, waking her up, explaining the situation, her getting dressed and coming back here. 15 minutes, probably rather 20 minutes, during which he would be lying in the street alone.

She had to ring someone's door.

Which door?Which house?None of them could just be walked up to; they all had high front gates. She would have to just bang her fists against any gate, ring any bell, and ask them to call an ambulance.

She could just have shouted for help. In the silence of the night, she would have been heard for about a mile around.

But she couldn't find her voice.

Then there was a groan and a tiny movement in the young man's shoulders. It broke Marilyn out of her frozen state. Without a conscious decision, she rushed to him and knelt by his left side, touching his back and upper arm. "Sir, are you okay? Can you hear me?"

There was another groan.

"Sir?"

He was lean and long-limped, with a dishevelled afro in brown corduroys and a long-sleeved button-up shirt that might have been off-white. Now it was dirty from the fall. His face was lying in his arms as he had tried to protect his head.

"Yes," he sounded shaken, but he was trying to move, "Yes, I can hear you."

"Oh, thank God!" she breathed. Then she bent closer to him. "Alright, sir. My name is Marilyn. What's your name? Can you tell me your name, sir?"

"Michael. My name is Michael," he said, trying to push himself upright, but having difficulties making a start. His arms were shaking with the effort. His palms and wrists were badly grazed. The pavement had destroyed the skin, and dirt and minor stones had worked themselves into it, while blood, dark and red, was now seeping into the broken tissues.

"Okay, Michael, take it slow. I'll help you, but I don't want to cause you additional pain."

Stiff and with Marilyn's help, he sat up. His right sleeve was torn and his elbow was skinned. On his right knee the thick cord fabric was ripped open and even in the poor light of the streetlamps, Marilyn could see he was bleeding.

She gently rubbed his shoulders. He looked scared and a bit confused, and his breathing was shaky. A thin line of blood was running out of his hair into his right eyebrow. Awkwardly, he reached for his forehead, and then looked bewildered at the blood on his fingertips.

"Michael," she said, trying to get his attention looking him in the eyes, "Michael, I will go and knock someone's door and have them call an ambulance, okay? That was quite a fall, there."

"No..." his long fingers took her wrist lightly, then, seeing his blood on her skin, quickly let go again, "wait... please... Just give me a minute. Okay? Just... Just a minute."

"I think you were out for a moment. We really should call an ambulance..." she tried, but he shook his head though it seemed to cause him pain.

"Please. Just a minute." Helplessly, he tried to wipe the blood off his forehead with his fingers.

"Okay. A minute," she said gently, afraid to agitate him. Then she got her handkerchief from her pocket. "Here, take this."

For a moment he hesitated, then he took it and more or less successfully dabbed the blood away before holding it to his head to stop the bleeding there.

"How do you feel?" she asked after a moment of silence.

He looked at the dark stains on the handkerchief before pressing it to the wound again. It wasn't bleeding badly. "I don't know. I hurt."

"Where does it hurt?"

"My head. My hands, my wrists..."

"I have no doubt about that. It must hurt like hell. Can you move them?"

He tried and nodded. "And most of my right side hurts..."

"Do you think you've broken something?"

He shot her a look, then, still holding the piece of cloth to his head, felt his side and legs with the other hand, inspected his elbow and his knee. His breathing settled slowly. "No... No, don't think so. Thank God..."

"I still think we should call an ambulance..."

The young man took a deep breath. Slowly, his shock subsided and was replaced by consideration. "I think I'll be okay. It's not so bad. I won't need them."

"But you hit your head really hard! A doctor should have a look at it!"

He took the handkerchief down. The bleeding had almost stopped already. He looked at his hands when he spoke. "It's like this: My mother is going to be really scared if I'm hospitalized. And my father... He would be very angry, if... if he knew I've been driving recklessly, had an accident and hurt myself. So I really don't want an ambulance, if it's not absolutely necessary. I'll just go home and lie down in bed."

For a moment Marilyn considered, if he could maybe have stolen the bicycle given the way he had been driving it and the fact that he didn't want an ambulance. But he probably wasn't nervous enough for that.

"I don't see how you'll hide this from your father. You can wear a new shirt and a new pair of pants tomorrow, but your hands aren't going to be healed by then!"

"Yes," he said in a low voice, looking at his palms with a worried expression, "but he still doesn't need to know I've fallen that badly!"

Arguing didn't help. He didn't want an ambulance, and Marilyn couldn't very well call one against his expressed and imperturbable wishes.

He was still stiff and at first a little insecure on his feet when he got up, but he didn't seem to have any broken bones. His head had stopped bleeding, but his knee hadn't, and he was visibly in pain when he moved.

Marilyn tried to dab his knee with her handkerchief, but it didn't help much, and the handkerchief was too short to tie it around his leg, so there was nothing she could do about it. He looked at his elbow once again and audibly sucked air through his teeth. Then they went for the bicycle.

Even while it was still lying on the ground, the handlebars turned inward, it was obvious that the front wheel was battered. The young man made a face at the sight of it.

"Maybe it can be fixed by adjusting the spokes..." Marilyn said doubtfully.

Trying to pick it up, Michael had difficulties bending down, and lifting it with his grazed palms was even more problematic, and so it was mainly Marilyn who did it. When they had put it upright, they regarded it in silence for a moment.

"No way!" Michael said finally.

Marilyn just shook her head. The wheel was so deformed she doubted it would even turn.

"My father is going to get so freaking mad!" Then he reached for his head and groaned.

At first she thought it was because of his damaged racing bike, but when she looked at him, she wasn't sure. His eyes were closed and his breath came more forcefully again. She touched his arm and squeezed it gently. "Michael, where do you live?"

"Hayvenhurst Avenue," he said, not opening his eyes.

That was quite some way off, and he didn't look good, now that he was standing. The longer she looked at him, the more he worried her. Even if she walked him home, she wasn't sure he would make it there. It would be a bit of a walk. And she didn't like the idea of him lying down in bed somewhere, probably alone, either. Someone should have an eye on him at least for a while in case his injuries turned out to be more severe than it seemed.

"Okay, here's what we'll do: We'll go to my parents' house. That's only a few streets away. We'll clean your injuries and put some bandages on them. And if you want you can leave your bike there, too, so your father won't see it. You could just - I don't know - get it later or even put a new wheel on before you take it home. Whatever you think is best. And tonight I'll take you home by car." She could have added 'Okay?', but she didn't. It wasn't a question.

He looked at her, then he just nodded.

"Okay. It's this way," she said encouragingly, pointing down the sloping street.

For a while they walked in silence, the bicycle between them. The front wheel did turn, when Marilyn put a bit of gentle force to it, but it was buckled, making the whole vehicle lurch. She kept looking at the young man. His face was transfixed, staring straight ahead. "I'm really sorry," she said finally.

He turned, and suddenly he looked very tired.

"It's my fault. The accident, I mean." She cast her eyes down, unable to bear the eye contact. "And that you got hurt. It's my fault. I was walking in the middle of the street. It's because of me. I'm so sorry!"

"It's not your fault," she heard him say. He had a high, but soft and pleasant voice. "I was driving on the wrong side of the street."

~~~~~

Hi, guys! :D Thank you for reading and thank you for your patience! <3

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You will probably have to wait a little bit for the next chapter again, because I'll be very busy in the second half of this week and the week after that. But you have all been such a wonderful crowd, so I wanted to put this part out before the very busy phase starts. :) Much Love <33