There was a squeal of brakes, and the cab dodged the car, clipping its left front fender with a shriek of metal before it tore away. Pink and I had taken a dive toward the curb, falling between a parked car and the red Camaro. We were lucky not to get squashed between the Camaro and the car behind it when the Camaro was hit. Even without being struck by one of the cars, we got banged up. I hit my head on something and scraped my hands. Pink pulled up his pants leg to look at his knee while I sat up and looked around. “Scraped the skin off,” he pronounced, “but it’s not bad. Man, that guy was a maniac!” The driver of the red Camaro was out of his car, staring after the retreating cab, swearing a blue streak. “Hit and run! He banged up my car and he never even stopped!” “Are you boys hurt?” an elderly lady asked, pausing beside us. “The drivers are so terrible these days.” A few people stopped, though most of them didn’t bother. It takes real blood to draw people to a wreck, not skinned knees and a dented fender.
