Angel Wings and Bullets

Chapter 1-2

It had been my first time in New York City, even though I only lived about an hour away. I was lost—totally lost. Looking for Grand Central Station to hop a train for Basic, I trudged up the sidewalk for about the one hundredth time—back and forth, back and forth, dragging my gear behind me. I’d been following a little girl in pink pants and a Tigger sweatshirt when it happened, not necessarily because I thought she knew the way, but because I was suddenly rather worried about what she was doing wandering the streets all alone. Her hair was in a ponytail, but a hundred little wisps of gold danced all around her face in the breeze, too threadlike to be held. She came to halt in front of me for no reason, so I stopped as well. Bam! I’ll never forget the sound. I’m sure Sawyer never will either. He’d been riding a bike, and somehow he’d crashed head on into the side of a city bus. I ran right over. It amazed me how many people didn’t, how many just kept on rushing to wherever it was they were going.

“Hey.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s all right. You’re going to be okay.” How could I promise such a thing? There was a lot of blood—from his nose and from wherever else it flowed—and his leg was bent at an angle a leg shouldn’t bend.

“My papers?”

“Huh?” I was kneeling on the pavement beside him. Already sirens could be heard. That was the good thing about the city, I’d supposed. Emergency services was never too far away.

“Where are my—ow!”

“Yeah. Seriously. ‘Ow.’ Stop talking. Relax. The ambulance will be here soon.”

He had a mop of wild reddish blond hair and I got glimpse of his beautiful eyes when his lids flitted open and shut. There was a crowd gathered now, but just the little girl and I were down on the ground with him. “I’m Countdown,” I said to Sawyer before I knew his name. “Yeah, it’s dumb,” I told him, “but I’m stuck with it. My real name is Bart…Bartholomew, but no one calls me that. If only my parents had known The Simpsons would be coming along in four more years. My brother picked the nickname ‘cause he said I don’t live in the moment. My birthday’s in September, and by then I’m counting ahead to Halloween. Instead of enjoying candy apples and Hershey bars dressed as a pirate when that does come along, I’d be making my list for Santa two months ahead. I’m talking so you have something to concentrate on other than…”

“My papers?”

“Dude. Your satchel is safe. It’s right there beside you.”

“Good.”

“Least of your worries, the way I see it, but I’ll make sure they keep them with you.” I had guessed by then the sirens I’d heard hadn’t been for him. Maybe the next batch would be. “What’s your name?”

“Sawyer Ettinger.”

“Nice to meet you, Sawyer. You a bike messenger?”

“Yeah.”

I’d heard stories about how reckless they were. Seemed accurate, as this one was lying in the street after a game of chicken with a forty-thousand pound bus.

“I’m cold.”

Frick. That wasn’t good. It was a rather balmy day in early October. “Alright. Let’s see what we can do about that.” I took off my light jacket, one I hadn’t needed anyway, and carefully put it over him. “Better?”

“Hmm.”

Damn! We were back to sounds instead of words.

“Where are you going, Countdown?” he managed.

That was better. He had the alertness to notice my bags. His brain was working. “Boot camp. Joining the military.”

“Good for you. Thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You’re brave.”

“You be brave now, Sawyer. You’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t think so.”

My heart stopped. Something caught in my throat—not something tangible, but fear and sadness. “Don’t you tell me that.” I carefully picked his hand up off the asphalt and held it in mine. That was when we’d had our moment. His eyes opened wider. He looked right at me. I felt a prickle of…something, and it seemed to me, by the way he almost smiled, that he’d felt it too.

“Take my charm.”

“Huh?”

“The chain around my neck…the pendant…take it with you…to stay safe.”

“Dude.” I could see it then, the round piece of metal on a thin silvery strand that was up on his shoulder instead of at his chest. It didn’t look like a medal. It was sort of round, but more abstract. “Sawyer…I couldn’t. If it offers good luck and protection, you’re going to need it yourself,” I told him.

“No. Take it…please.”

“Sawyer…” I liked his name. “Are you sure?”

“I want…you to have it. Cops and army guys…are…”

Are what? I wondered. He never did say. Leaning in to unfasten the chain, I worried, despite his insistence, that he wasn’t fully cognitive. So close to his face, just for a moment, I wanted to kiss the clean spot on his forehead. I resisted—the urge and the idea of taking his necklace. I could see the clasp, but still, I hesitated.

“Take it.” He was a persistent motherfucker, even as he lay there near unconsciousness.

“Alright, dude. Chill.” I talked so stupid at eighteen.

I took the pendant. Half the people looking probably thought I was stealing it.

“I’ll tell you the story someday,” Sawyer Ettinger said.

We were still holding hands when the ambulance got there. Things got a little crazy then. Even though no one else had gotten down to help or talk to Sawyer, at least fifty people wanted to tell the police and the EMTs what had happened. I saw a cop walk off with the little girl. Whoever she was, I hoped he’d take care of her. No one came to me, so I didn’t offer up my account. I put the pendant on instead, a really thick piece of silver-colored metal—thicker than a coin—that dangled from a matching chain. I’d been expecting some sort of saint, Christopher, maybe, but all it had, roughly scratched into its flatness, was the number twelve on one side and the letter S on the other. S for Sawyer, I assumed.

With the help of another stranger, I’d finally made my way off to Grand Central. I’d headed to Texas, and eventually Iraq, Afghanistan, and then back to Iraq. I’d been wearing the pendant when I’d arrived in Afghanistan—my second time there. How many years ago was that now? Three? Closer to four, I guessed, since I’d been home almost one. The thing had literally saved my life there. It had stopped a bullet from ripping through my chest, but then its magical powers wore out.