life changed forever.
It didn’t happen in slow motion like his game-winning touchdown. It was fast, so fast
that he had no time to do anything but react.
A semi was travelling towards them.
One instant it was in the oncoming lane.
The next, it skidded and jackknifed on the wet roadway.
The girls screamed.
“John,” Alden yelled, “Jesus Christ, John…”
Johnny braked and yanked the steering wheel hard right, avoiding the truck by inches.
The maneuver would have worked…
But the car gave a sickening lurch as the right front tire left the pavement.
The steering wheel was wrenched from his hands.
He heard a high, girlish scream. Heard Alden shout as the Mustang began to flip over.
After that, there was only darkness.
* * * *
He woke to a world of bright lights, noise and pain.
He was lying in a bed, but the room was not his. The mattress was hard. The wall ahead
of him was an institutional green. No posters of Roger Staubach or Lyn Swann adorned
it, no autographed photo of Walter Payton.
“John?”
His right leg was encased in plaster from knee to foot; a tube snaked into a vein
on the back of his left hand. It felt as if a thousand drummers were beating inside
his skull; every breath sent what felt like a sharp knife straight through his chest
and into his back.
“John?”
Where was he? Not at Angie’s. Not in his car.
“John? Can you hear me?”
God. Oh God. His car. The truck. Everything spinning, tumbling out of control in the
blackness. The screams, the shouts…
Jesus Christ!
He shot upright. Tried to, anyway, but pain lanced through him; the room went out
of focus.
He screamed and fell back against the pillow.
“Easy,” a woman’s voice said. “Don’t try to move.”
“Alden,” he said hoarsely. “My brother…”
“Can you tell me your name?”
Johnny blinked. Looked up. A woman stood over him. She was wearing a white coat; a
stethoscope hung around her neck.
“Johnny. Johnny Wilde.”
She nodded as if he’d said something profound.
“Good. And where are you, John? Can you tell me?”
What was with all this BS? He knew his name. He knew he was in some damn hospital.
“My brother,” Johnny said. “Is he OK?”
“Tell me where you are, John.”
Dammit!
“Hospital.”
“Right. You’re in the Mount Sinai emergency room. I’m Dr. Stuart.” She paused. “Do
you remember what happened, John?”
Johnny shut his eyes. He could see the truck skidding, blocking the road…
“Truck,” he said, looking at the doctor. “Big truck, jackknifed…” A shudder ripped
through him. “Steering wheel twisted out of my hands.”
Dr. Stuart put her hand on his shoulder.
“You’re going to be fine, John. You fractured a couple of ribs, fractured your right
fibula, sustained a concussion, but otherwise…”
“My brother?”
“I know you’ll be glad to hear that the young women in the back seat came through
with only a few bruises.”
“I want to see my brother!”
Johnny tried to struggle upright again. The doctor’s hands were firm as she clasped
his shoulders and eased him back down.
“Easy. We don’t want you moving around until we’re certain that your concussion—”
“I don’t give a crap about that, goddammit! Tell me about Alden! Where is he?”
“In the morgue,” a hard-as-glass voice said. Amos Wilde elbowed the doctor aside.
“That’s where my son is, you piece of shit! He’s in the fucking morgue, and you put
him there!”
“Mr. Wilde,” the doctor said sharply, “please! Your son has just regained consciousness.
Surely this could—”
“My son is dead!”
Bile rose in Johnny’s throat. He gagged; the doctor slipped her hand behind his head
and supported it as a nurse shoved a blue plastic pan under his chin. He retched violently
but his belly was empty—he never ate before a game and he hadn’t eaten since.
He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to eat again.
“Alden,” he gasped,