Like a bumblebee, I thought.
“… but also to the horrors…”
I just kept staring at him, frozen. Sound disappeared. Time slowed. And the world turned black-and-white, my own personal newsreel. It was like the first day I met the President. The handshake alone felt like an hour. Living between seconds, someone called it. Time standing still.
Still locked on the bumblebee, I couldn’t tell if he was moving forward or if everyone around him was rushing back.
“Man down!” the detail leader shouted.
I followed the sound and the hand motions to a man in a navy suit, lying facedown on the ground. Oh, no. Boyle. His forehead was pressed against the pavement, his face screwed up in agony. He was holding his chest, and I could see blood starting to puddle out from below him.
“Man down!” the detail leader shouted again.
My eyes slid sideways, searching for the President. I found him just as a half dozen jumpsuited agents rushed at the small crowd that was already around him. The frantic agents were moving so fast, the people closest to Manning were pinned against him.
“Move him! Now!” an agent yelled.
Pressed backward against the President, the wife of the NASCAR CEO was screaming.
“You’re crushing her!” Manning shouted, gripping her shoulder and trying to keep her on her feet. “Let her go!”
The Service didn’t care. Swarming around the President, they rammed the crowd from the front and right side. That’s when momentum got the best of them. Like a just-cut tree, the crush of people tumbled to the side, toward the ground. The President was still fighting to get the CEO’s wife out. A bright light exploded. I remember the flashbulb going off.
“… so people could test their faith…” the gunman roared as a separate group of agents in jumpsuits got a grip on his neck… his arm… the back of his hair. In slow motion, the bumblebee’s head snapped back, then his body, as two more pops ripped the air.
I felt a bee sting in my right cheek.
“… and examine good from evil!” the man screamed, arms spread out like Jesus as agents dragged him to the ground. All around them, other agents formed a tight circle, brandishing semiautomatic Uzis they had torn from their leather satchels and backpacks.
I slapped my own face, trying to kill whatever just bit me. A few feet ahead, the crowd surrounding the President collided with the asphalt. Two agents on the far side grabbed the First Lady, pulling her away. The rest never stopped shoving, ramming, stepping over people as they tried to get to Manning and shield him.
I looked as the puddle below Boyle grew even larger. His head was now resting in a milky white liquid. He’d thrown up.
From the back of the President’s pile, our detail leader and another suit-and-tie agent gripped Manning’s elbows, lifted him from the pile, and shoved him sideways, straight at me. The President’s face was in pain. I looked for blood on his suit but didn’t see any.
Picking up speed, his agents were going for the limo. Two more agents were right behind them, gripping the First Lady under her armpits. I was the only thing in their way. I tried to sidestep but wasn’t fast enough. At full speed, the detail leader’s shoulder plowed into my own.
Falling backward, I crashed into the limo, my rear end hitting just above the right front tire. I still see it all in some out-of-body slow motion: me trying to keep my balance… slapping my hand against the car’s hood… and the splat from my impact. Sound was so warped, I could hear the liquid squish. The world was still black-and-white. Everything except for my own red handprint.
Confused, I put my hand back to my cheek. It slid across my skin, which was slick and wet and raw with pain.
“Go, go, go!” someone screamed.
Tires spun. The car lurched. And the limo sped out from under me. Like a soda can forgotten on the roof, I tumbled backward, crashing on my ass. A crunch of rocks bit into my rear. But all I could really feel was the tick-tock tick-tock pumping in my cheek.
I looked down at my palm, seeing that my chest and right shoulder were soaked. Not by water. Thicker… and darker… dark red. Oh, God, is that my—?
Another flashbulb went off. It wasn’t just the red of my blood I was seeing. Now there was blue… on my tie… and yellow… yellow stripes on the road. Another flashbulb exploded as knives of color stabbed my eyes. Silver and brown and bright green race cars. Red, white, and blue flags abandoned in the grandstands. A screaming blond boy in the third row with an aqua and orange Miami Dolphins T-shirt. And red… the dark, thick red all over my hand, my arm, my chest.
I again touched my cheek. My fingertips scraped against something sharp. Like metal — or… is that bone? My stomach nose-dived, swirling with nausea. I touched my face again with a slight push. That thing wouldn’t budge… What’s wrong with my fa—?
Two more flashbulbs blinded me with white, and the world flew at me in fast-forward. Time caught up in a fingersnap, blurring at lightspeed.
“I’m not feeling a pulse!” a deep voice yelled in the distance. Directly ahead, two suit-and-tie Secret Service agents lifted Boyle onto a stretcher and into the ambulance from the motorcade. His right hand dangled downward, bleeding from his palm. I replayed the moments before the limo ride. He would’ve never been in there if I hadn’t—
“He’s cuffed! Get the hell off!” A few feet to the left, more agents screamed at the dogpile, peeling layers away to get at the gunman. I was on the ground with the rest of the grease stains, struggling to stand up, wondering why everything was so blurry.
Help…! I called out, though nothing left my lips.
The grandstands tilted like a kaleidoscope. I fell backward, crashing into the pavement, lying there, my palm still pressed against the slippery metal in my cheek.
“Is anyone—?”
Sirens sounded, but they weren’t getting louder. Softer. They quickly began to fade. Boyle’s ambulance… Leaving… They’re leaving me…
“Please… why isn’t…?”
One woman screamed in a perfect C minor. Her howl pierced through the crowd as I stared up at the clear Florida sky. Fireworks… we were supposed to have fireworks. Albright’s gonna be pissed…
The sirens withered to a faint whistle. I tried to lift my head, but it didn’t move. A final flashbulb hit, and the world went completely white.
“Wh-Why isn’t anyone helping me?”
That day, because of me, Ron Boyle died.
Eight years later, he came back to life.
2
Some scars never heal.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the ex-President of the United States, Leland Manning,” our host, the deputy prime minister of Malaysia announces. I cringe as I hear the words. Never call him ex. It’s former. Former President.
The deputy prime minister repeats it again in Mandarin, Cantonese, and Malay. The only words I understand each time are: Leland Manning… Leland Manning… Leland Manning. From the way Manning tugs on his earlobe and pretends to glance backstage, it’s clear that the only words he hears are ex-President.