A curved black mark appeared on Clark’s cheek, as if the tip of the crowbar had been dipped in ink. It took a few seconds for the blood to start gushing. Then it came down off his chin, spattering the dusty boxcar floor in dark drops. Clark shrieked. He was too scared to be angry yet. He kept fingering his split cheek, pressing his knuckles against the lower edge of the cut. Occasionally he would wipe away some of the blood with his fingertips, as if the wound were an eye, and the blood, some kind of embarrassing teardrop. He kept asking, “Can I get some help over here?” but no one moved to help him. I asked Silvia if she was all right. She nodded, but there was something new and formal about her. She was looking at me with disbelief and a little fear, as if I was a new person, a stranger, which was exactly how I felt. She wouldn’t come near me. It made me sad, but at the same time, I felt good about protecting her. I thought: She’s had a big shock; she’ll be fine in a minute.
