B is for...

Sam raced his little brother Michael home from the high school on their bicycles. It was October of Michael's freshman year. Sam was a Senior, captain of the lacrosse team, and wanted to go to UCLA next year.

"Check it!" Sam called over his shoulder and leaned back on his bike, lifting the front wheel off the ground.

"Wheeeeeelie!" Michael yelled, his voice cracking, and zipped ahead of his older brother. "How about this?"

Michael took both hands off the handlebars and held them straight in the air like he was on a roller coaster. He rocked gently side to side so the bike swerved in S's.

"Righteous!" Sam shouted up the road.

"What?" Michael looked back at Sam. He didn't see the moving van turn the corner.

At nearly full speed, Michael hit the driver-side door of the cab of the large truck. Sam jammed on his brakes so hard he half-leapt, half-fell off his bike and broke into a full sprint. Neither boy wore a helmet.

Michael was laying motionless on the pavement, one of his arms twisted awkwardly behind his back. The driver opened the door and said, "Oh Jesus."

"Michael!" Sam shook his shoulders. Shit, is he even breathing? Sam put his ear to his brother's mouth. "Michael!"

CPR...CPR it was somewhere in Sam's brain. Quick, see if the victim is conscious. No. Then...it's the ABC's of CPR. A is for arteries, is he bleeding? No, A is for...articulation, call his name! No, A is for...airway? Well he's not breathing. Dammit, Michael.

Maybe B is for breathing? B is for blood? B is for body bag? B is for brother. B is for baby brother. B is for baseball, biology class, Bonnie Winters with the big boobs. Big boobs Bonnie. B is for mom and dad and dinner getting cold on the table and learning to drive and asking a girl to the Homecoming Dance and thinking about living away from home for the first time and wondering if people in LA are cool and B is for...Dammit, Michael breathe.