Chapter Eight: Continuation
Everything was going as usual; it was the second half of July, and we were looking for work. Sasha and Maxim joined the search; Sasha was being mistreated a bit at Kroger and wanted another job, while Maxim was mostly just tagging along. Kirya and Sasha were the most intense in their search (out of desperation, they would ride really far). As for me, in search of harmony and solitude, I would throw pencils, sketchbooks, a water bottle, and a bike pump into my backpack (the tires were always going flat because they were punctured by nasty star-shaped weeds with sharp thorns) and ride off somewhere quiet to draw ponds, Catholic churches, and, of course, the ocean.
One day, the four of us (us and Sasha) were wandering along the highway as usual in search of work. Seeing some construction site on 48th Avenue, we decided to turn in and ask if they needed any migrant workers. Not understanding anything from the Mexicans working there, we moved on. The path was narrow, with Kirya and Sasha riding in front and us with Sashka behind. Far ahead, a cyclist's figure was rapidly approaching us. That is the last thing I remember.
Literally seconds later, I fell onto the asphalt from a heavy blow to my left arm. Lying on the ground, I heard someone screaming. As it turned out, Sasha and Kirya had chased after that cyclist. Coming to my senses, I saw Sashka, who was saying something and holding my left arm, which I was clutching with a death grip due to the unbearable pain. I don't know how much time passed, minutes or half an hour, when I finally opened my hand to the light of day. Something dangling at the wrist joint and covered in blood appeared before my eyes. The tendons (or I don't know what you call it) were torn, my fingers wouldn't move, and a bare bone was gaping at the knuckle of my ring finger.
It was even scarier than the day I knocked out 8 teeth at once, scarier than the hip surgeries... I didn't know what to do or what was wrong with my hand. A woman ran out of a nearby restaurant and started pouring water on my hand and shoving napkins at me, saying that was all she had. We decided to go out to the highway. Then I was seized with terror. Kirya and Sasha had gone in pursuit and still hadn't returned! What if it was a bandit with a weapon?? Terrible thoughts plunged me into an even more horrific state. We went into a travel agency; the ladies there gave us their entire arsenal of medical supplies, and we went back out to the street. While Sashka was working on my lifeless hand, a terrifying roar of sirens approached from somewhere far away, as if an air raid was starting. A motorcade of all kinds of emergency services rushed past us and turned onto 48th Avenue. "What an unlucky street," I thought, "someone must have had something serious happen." I hadn't even finished that thought when a man ran out from around the corner of 48th Avenue and called to us, something like: "Hey, girls, aren't they looking for you over there?" We followed him and found ourselves at the epicenter of attention. Sasha and Kirya, who had appeared from somewhere, were talking over each other, telling the paramedics what had happened. They quickly examined me, put me on a stretcher, and shoved me into the ambulance. Kiryusha asked to come with me, and now we were heading who knows where. They put a miracle-pouch on my wrist that was constantly cold, even though it had no ice in it; Kirya and the rescue guy were talking about something...
I won't ramble on; I'll just say that at the hospital, we had to wait quite a while for our turn to be examined. The hospital was incomparable to Russian ones. Bright, cheerful colors, no smell, paintings everywhere—both fine art and abstract. I was looking around with my mouth open. Anyway, my turn came. They examined me for a long time, took me for an X-ray (before the X-ray, they put some huge armor-suit and a helmet on me, placed my wrist on the table, and filmed it from different angles), and finally put me in a ward where the space between patients was separated by curtains. It all reminded me very much of movies that feature hospitals. They carefully put my arm in a cast up to the elbow and informed me that there was no fracture, but I absolutely had to see a doctor in Myrtle Beach who specializes in such cases. Then they took us to a lady who handles clinic payment matters. At first, we were scared because we didn't have a dollar on us, but then she asked if we had insurance, and we assured her that we certainly did, but it was at home. The lady said we could go. We called Victor, and on the way home, we heard various stories about how a girl on a bicycle was hit and killed here, etc., etc. At home, we met up with the others and learned that when Kirya and Sasha lost sight of the racer, people on their way tried to help in every possible way; some joined the search, some rushed to call rescuers—in short, they never found him. And here is what happened to Sasha and Sashka, who were left on 48th Avenue with four bicycles 21 avenues away from home.
After we were taken away, they had to walk because they couldn't manage to carry one bike each. People on a golf cart drove past them, and one woman asked what happened; then they left, and the two wandered on. About five minutes later, this same woman caught up with them in a Jeep, loaded all the bikes and them, brought them to her house, treated them to cold drinks and food, asked questions, gave her address and phone number, and asked them to be sure to reach out if anything happened, and drove our pair and all the bikes to our house.
That's how it is. That's what these simple Americans are like.)
