Hit

Lying.  My face against hard, damp ground.  Restful.  Exhausted.  Warm.

Light.  Green.  Grass.  I can’t turn to the sky.  I can’t turn.

How nice to rest.

Sound.  Swish, swish and thumps.  Hurried crashing of feet.  Two feet.

A face looms into my perfect green close-up, red with strain and bulging with horror.  Movement.  I’m rearranged, drawn over and up.  Two arms are less comfortable than the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurts.

Am I dead?  Rush of anxiety.  Pointless.  Calm.  I try to turn to where I was, to see if I’m still there.  I can’t see, just bouncing sky and woolly neck.  He shifts his grip on me with an extra bounce.

Smell.  Wood.  Smoke.  Metal.

“You’ll be fine,” he gasps, as much for him as for me.