Of All the Things that I Don't Know (Spot Conlon + OC)

Chapter 11

Spot anticipated Flit's fall well before the wiry boy was aware of his own body's imminent collapse. Running at full speed, he circumvented Skip easily, falling to his knees to deftly catch Flit as he dropped. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rummy gather up the bundle that had fallen from Flit's beleaguered grasp, Skip circling him and babbling incoherently, but his attention was quickly brought back to his bird's shaking, near unconscious form, everything else immediately pushed into the background. He felt his ears ringing deafeningly as he became more wholly in tune to the extent of Flit's injuries. His bird's face was alarmingly pale, his breathing labored, and after a quick assessment, Spot noticed several troubling wounds to Flit's leg and abdomen.

"Flit," Spot said as he shook the boy slightly, attempting to rouse him from his near comatose state.

"Flit," he said more firmly, grabbing the boy's face to aid him in focusing. But the Flit's eyes merely dipped into the back of his head as he mumbled, "I let ya down...had ta...make it right."

Spot stared confusedly at Flit for a brief moment, unable to comprehend the meaning of his statement, but all too suddenly he felt an unfamiliar panic fill him as Flit's eyes fluttered closed with an unsettling finality.

"Flit!" Spot desperately cried as he attempted one more rousing shake on the boy, but Flit's eyes remained shut.

Spot exasperatedly shouted, "Goddammit!" as he beat his fist to the ground, horrified at the real possibility that Flit's prior statement could very well have been his last.

The Brooklyn leader's head swam in uneasiness. Flit appeared to still be breathing, but barely. He quickly hoisted the boy over his shoulder, not wanting to spare a moment in getting Flit to safety. Without even looking at Rummy or Skip he stated shakily, "I gotta get him back, or else he won't last long. Maybe Mary'll know what the hell to do."

As he began taking his first steps back toward the lodging house, the ringing in his ears began to dull enough for him to realize that Rummy was calling his name repeatedly.

"Spot!"

Spot whipped his head around, staring at Rummy with wide, expectant eyes. And then, like an abrupt punch to the face, the hazy edges of the scene he and Rummy had intercepted moments before flooded immediately into the foreground. As he took in the sight of the filthy blanket that Rummy held, dark curls and pale skin becoming visible even through the dimness, he felt himself nearly topple he and Flit onto the hard, cold ground. A new sense of alarm permeated the Brooklyn leader as he searched for any words that would convey the multitude of questions and concerns racing through his mind.

"Jesus Christ, Rummy, is that...is she..."

Spot's unfinished questions echoed amidst the group of boys as he felt his heart leap into his throat and an instability take over his stance for a second time. He attempted to steady himself again, but found that he was still dizzy and short of breath, his brain reeling with the impossibility of all he now saw before him. For a moment, he felt his heart swell with immense hope, but all too suddenly the familiar feeling of dread pervaded in his gut, a multitude of dark, albeit probable, realities flooding through his mind as he reminded himself of Flit's present state.

When he noted Rummy's quick head shake, he could feel the panic lift slightly and the breath return to his lungs.

"Conlon, somethin' ain't right with her, though...with...any of this," Rummy said quietly as he approached Spot, Skip at his heels.

Spot nodded distractedly, feeling the comforting hum of ideas snap his mind back into its habitual focus, years of sorting through varying crises aiding his entire body's transformation into the stoic armor on which he had always depended.