Chaos Theory Read Online Free Page A

before. Daniel doubles over and collapses into the snow as Goon Two lands a hard kick into his rib cage causing him to scream and curl up as boots drill into him like jackhammers.
    Think. Think. Think. There has to be a way to stop this.
    I yell to an imaginary pack of friends, “Come on! It’s this way,” following it with a long laugh. It works. The goons race for the skate park.
    The whole attack took seconds—the longest seconds of my life. As soon as they are out of sight, I run to his side. He’s in a fetal ball, clutching his sides. Blood pours from his nose.
    â€œOh God, Daniel.”
    He opens an eye. “What are you doing here?” A groan chokes off his words.
    â€œSaving your butt. How bad is it?”
    â€œNot good.” With a grunt and a heave, he tries to get up, but wouldn’t have made it if he hadn’t grabbed my arm. He staggers to his feet.
    â€œIdiot! Lie back down. If you have a broken rib, it can punch a hole in your lung. I’ll call an ambulance.”
    â€œNo!” He death-grips my arm. “No ambulance. I’m not dying.”
    â€œBullshit.”
    Then he adds the most gut-wrenching plea. “Please.”
    â€œDon’t be stupid.” But his agonized plea does it. Somewhere along the line something has switched and Drug Guy is now Daniel.
    â€œIt’s important, Kami. Just get me to the ER.”
    God, what am I doing? He’s a drug dealer. But he’s hurt. “Okay. My car’s by the river. It’s faster to go by the skate park instead of around and under the bridge.”
    â€œNo.” He coughs and blood spatters against the white snow. His nose is bleeding—ugly and disgusting, but manageable. It doesn’t look broken. They hadn’t hit his face, so he must have smacked it going down. “Not the skate park. Can’t let them see you. Get me out of here.”
    The words sputter from his lips in halts and starts. He leans hard against me and my knees buckle a bit. He’s heavier than expected. “Just get me to the ER,” he says, “and grab my board.”
    If he’s worried about his skateboard, I figure he’ll live. I retrieve it and—why the hell I do it, I have no idea—slip the baggie of pills into my coat pocket. Weaving, we limp our way under the bridge, leaving a blood trail that’s quickly covered with fresh falling snow.
    ***
    At the hospital, the smell of strong disinfectant dredges up serious memories of being here with Grandma. Orderlies rush Daniel into an exam room behind stainless-steel doors. I follow close, because his hand won’t let mine go. They strip Daniel, carry off his clothes, and ease him back onto the bed, covering his purple/blue bruised body with a blanket.
    The ER doc says, “Thank God you had a cup.”
    Athletic cup, right. Time to leave. Daniel’s arm snakes out and pulls me next to him. “No. Stay.” The sea of pastel scrubs parts, letting me in.
    The mechanical readouts alleviate the doctor’s initial concerns. Eventually, they leave, saying they’ll be back to take him to X-ray. Daniel says, “Your phone. I need it. They took mine.”
    I hand him mine and he tries to punch in the number, but his fingers won’t behave. I take the phone after his third attempt and ask, “What’s the number?” I punch dial, it rings, and hand it back.
    He gasps into the phone. “I’m at the ER. They’re going to ask questions.”
    There is a mumbled reply.
    Daniel whispers, “I don’t think so.”
    A loud “good” follows. I catch my phone as it slips from his fingers and shove it into my backpack. That hadn’t been a Mommy-I’m-at-the-hospital type call. The baggie retrieved from the snow burns a hole in my coat pocket.
    He says, “You took it, right?”
    I shrug my shoulders in a what?
    â€œYou picked up the stash, right?”
    It’s time to