Where'd You Go? (Track Twelve, III), chapter 6

The truck was not running, but the wheels were still turning slowly. Broken glass reflected the street lights like fallen stars all over the street and in the grass of the field. Barely stopping the car, Billie Joe jumped out with Wren right behind. The glass crunched under her sneakers as she skidded to a halt beside the truck. Billie Joe was already looking inside. "Tré's gone. Tré!" He looked around nervously, his voice cracking and wobbling. The driver's side window was smashed, no trace of it left. Billie Joe desperately scanned the area. "Tré, TRÉ!" He voice rose in volume until it cracked.

Wren looked inside the trashed vehicle. Mike was lying against his door, blood trickling down his face and obscuring it. The dashboard bore shattered testimony to what had happened to cause the wound. Overcome with horror, all Wren could do was stare. Fear swamped her, there was so much blood. How can anyone loose that much blood and still live? "Mike, c'mon man," Billie Joe whimpered, "Wake up." He looked over his shoulder. "We gotta find Tré. He must've been thrown." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "Call for help. You yell for me if," his eyes flicked to the truck, "If anything happens." He sprinted off into the field.

Wren leaned over the truck's window, trying to stretch and touch Mike's shoulder. Her arm was too short, so she kept watching him as if her eyes alone could hold Mike in this world. With trembling fingers, she punched numbers into the cell. Nine. He was breathing.
One. Inhale. C'mon c'mon c'mon. Don't die!
One. Exhale.
"911 what's the nature of your emergency?"
"There's been a rollover," Wren gasped, "We need help."
"Alright, just stay calm. Where are you?"
"Uh," Wren threw her head up, reading a street sign. "On Shafer Avenue. By the soccer field."
"Emergency vehicles are on the way. The station is not far, don't worry. Now, is anyone injured?"

"Yeah, my friend, Mike, he's bleeding from his head and we can't get him to wake up. The driver, he's been thrown out and -"
"Wren! I found him!" Billie Joe's voice was harsh from constantly calling for the missing drummer.
"Okay!" She spoke into the cell, "We found him. I don't know what's wrong."
"There're more of you?" The operator's tone was curt. "Tell whoever found the driver to not move him unless he's in serious danger."
"Billie, don't move him!" Wren cried into the night's stillness. Distantly, the wail of approaching sirens heralded the arrival of aid.
"Now, the fellow who's bleeding. Can you see him enough to tell if it's just oozing or is it spurting?"

Wren leaned in to peer at Mike's face. "Uh, I don't see any spurting going on..." she said carefully. "That's good right?"
"Yes it is. Now, is the vehicle sparking, or on fire?"
"No, it's just on its side."
"Good. The driver, what do you know of his injuries?" Oh, God. Please let everything be okay. She just wanted to be somewhere else so she could sit down and cry.
"Billie, what's up with Tré? How bad is he?"

"Fuck, he's beat up. His fucking arm bone is sticking through his skin. It's gotta be busted. His face is all bruised black and beat to hell," Billie Joe shouted back in a voice so thin and frail, Wren barely recognized it as his.
"He's got a broken arm, really bad, and his face is bruised," Wren told the operator as the ambulance screeched up. "The ambulance is here now."
"Okay. The police will be around to collect a report. Let paramedics take care of things. You'll be fine."
"Yeah. Uh, bye." Shutting off the phone, Wren called to the paramedics, "Over there!" She pointed in the direction of Billie's hunched form on the grass. "He needs more help!" There was no way she could even be remotely calm about this.

Despite Wren's commands, one of the ambulance attendants, a woman, came over. "Did you see the accident?"
"No, me and Billie Joe were following and just found it like this." The paramedic scrutinized inside the truck.
"What's his name?"
"Mike, you know short for Michael." Wren knew she was babbling, but her mouth was running so her brain could not start pondering harsh realities. "He's not gonna die is he?"
"Not if I can help it. Mike? Michael? Can you hear me? Give me a sign if you can."

Wren twisted her rings on her fingers just to give her hands something to do. Another ambulance, a fire truck, and a police cruiser arrived. Paramedics were wheeling a stretcher towards one ambulance. Wren jogged over to Billie Joe, who was following behind. She caught a glance of Tré, strapped down and not moving. "I'm going with Tré, can you stay with Mike?" Billie asked as he clambered into the steel chamber in the back of the ambulance.
"Sure." Wren could not be absolutely certain, but when he nodded she thought she saw tears in the corners of his eyes. "Billie," she did not know what to say. Instead, she reached out and squeezed his fingers. He looked up and seemed to get himself under control. He squeezed back and smiled weakly.
"Don't let Mike do something stupid like die on me, okay?"

Wren released his fingers and nodded. There was a lump in her throat that would not let her speak. That same lump made tears burn at the corner of her eyes as well. The ambulance doors were slammed shut and the vehicle rolled away, lights flashing, siren blaring. Wren turned around in time to see the emergency personnel use the fire truck to carefully right the truck. The multitude of flashing lights blinded her as she hurried to the passenger side. Its window was gone as well. Wren fought nausea as she saw the huge, bloody, scratch on the right side of Mike's face. "Hey. Mike, can you hear me?"

He groaned and his eyelids flickered. Hope surged wildly into Wren. He was alive, breathing, and something close to conscious. He had to be okay. Before she could do anything more, the paramedics briskly moved her out of the way so they could tend to their patient. A pair of police officers took Wren aside to ask her a few questions. She had the feeling that she was really telling them nothing beneficial to their job. "Did you see the accident?"
"No."
"The driver, do you know if he was drinking?"
"No, he wasn't."
"How long do you figure it was between your call to the 911 dispatcher and the rollover's occurrence?"
"I don't know, no more than five minutes."
"Was the driver in any way, angry, depressed?"
"No, not that I know."What did that have to do with anything?

"On any sort of drugs?"
"No." Wren did not dare hesitate. As far as she knew, Tré had been cold sober. The one officer flipped his notebook closed. He looked over his shoulder at the truck.
"If you want to go with your pal, I can drive your car to the hospital so you have a way home. Sonja here can then pick me up in the cruiser. Will that work, miss?"
"Yeah, that would. Thanks."
"No problem. Hope your friends get better quick. Keys are in the ignition?"
"Yep. Thanks a lot."