It was just dizzying. A lashing out of pressure, like caving a hole in drywall with bloodied knuckles, and he'd feel better. And until Sam screamed, Cris didn't realize what was going through her head. He winced, not at the blood, but at the pain the volume punctured in his ear, and he swore at her.—He didn't get that she was leaving. Not until he opened his eyes, hand up to grab her, and instead of blonde, there was a stranger's face in his, too close, asking him if he was okay, did he speak English, did he need help.
The guy was lucky he didn't get punched.
Sam's shoes were still there on the sidewalk, and that was what he moved toward. Up, on legs that didn't want to go anywhere, away from the building, pushing people out of the way, telling them he was fine. Cris didn't care about the tail of red that trickled warm, like a tickle, down the back of his head, and he didn't care about the vertigo that blackholed in his stomach.—He had to get to her and get her away from here. Away from the cars, from all these people and their phones.—There came the wail of sirens, and Cris took Sam's upperarm, firm, tremors quelled as he bit down on his tongue, and he dragged her with him.
They weren't far from the precinct. If he could get her there, into the break room, his bruised brain told him, it would be okay. She could ride out the crash. She could sleep.
"Ven," he told her, walking on the outside, so she was forced next to the wall of buildings that lined the avenue.