"So you're a Drum Major." It's more of a statement than a question. Chase and I are putting dishes away into cabinets as Dad puts together his bedroom. After registration, I came home and helped Dad bring in his furniture. A while after that, Chase came by and started helping. It went way faster after that. It turns out he's not only cute, but good to talk to, too!

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, still not really sure how that happened...I think I just worked hard enough and I got to be good enough the past three years that he thought I deserved it." Chase shrugs.

I wonder aloud, "What do you even play?"

"Clarinet, actually." When I laugh, he continues, "Hey, now. It's a great instrument. And I was good at it, too."

"Seriously? I had you pegged as more of a trumpet or saxophone."

He wrinkles his nose. "Trumpet's not my favorite. There's just a lot of surplus ego that's not really my style. Also, whenever I played it, I wasn't good at all. It was a problem. I like sax though, especially for jazz."

I laugh, "Poor Chase can only play two instruments."

"Um, five, actually. Guitar, piano, violin..." He rubs the back of his neck.

I gape at him, "Are you, like, perfect?"

He looks at me inquisitively, "What?"

"Like what do you do? Do you just practice all the time?"

Chase hesitates, looking down at the box he's almost done unpacking. "I mean...no. I really don't." I start to speak, but he continues. "Sure, I practice a lot, but not like every moment..." He trails off.

An awkward silence follows. I break it by saying, "I wasn't trying to offend you. I think it's great that you are so into it. It's way better than being obsessed with video games or sports like so many of these guys today are."

He nods, "I just really like it."

I nod. Silence falls over us. We continue unpacking boxes for a few minutes before Chase opens his mouth to speak again. Before he can even get any words out, we hear a crash and a yelp come from Dad's room, followed by him Dad yelling for me. Chase and I rush in to see Dad on the floor with his left leg pinned under the bookshelf. He's shaking in pain, and some blood is running onto the carpet. Unable to speak through the pain, he raises his hand to his face, signaling to call 911.

Chase is way ahead of him. He already has his phone to his face and is calmly telling the operator the address. "His left leg is pinned under a heavy bookshelf. The bone seems to be broken, maybe even shattered. I can't really tell." He pauses to listen to the operator, then says, "okay," and pulls the phone away from his ear. "Myka, we have to get the shelf off and then we need something to stop the flow of blood."

I nod silently and go to find a towel in the bathroom. When I return, Chase lifts the shelf straight up a few inches and moves it to the side. He snatches the towel from my hand and presses it against the gash. All I can focus on is the blood on the edge of the shelf and the blood staining the cream colored carpet. I can't move from shock.

Dad is hurt.
Dad is bleeding.
Dad is broken.
What do I do?
What do I do?

"Myka. Myka. Myka!"

I snap out of my thoughts. Chase is trying to give me instructions. Before he even says anything else, I hear the sirens and realize what he's asking.

My vision is wavy as I step out of the room and attempt to descend the stairs. I push our front door open and brace myself against the doorway. The EMTs are already running down the path toward me. "My Dad. Upstairs," I gasp, still holding onto the doorframe to keep myself vertical. They rush past me, up the stairs to the bedroom, where I can hear them talking to Chase as they start to treat Dad. I try to go back up the stairs, but everything swings back and forth in front of my eyes. By the time I pull myself together to the point where I can go back up, the paramedics already have him on a stretcher and are maneuvering him down the steps.

Chase takes my arm and leads me toward the ambulance, pulling the apartment door closed behind us. We watch them load him up and close the doors. As they begin to drive away, I sway back and forth. He catches me before I completely collapse.

The next thing I know, I'm sitting in the passenger's seat of a blue Ford Fusion, racing toward St. Anthony Medical Center. Chase is weaving in and out of traffic on the highway. I look down at my hands, then out at the road, over at Chase, back to my hands, and then realize it's extremely hot in the car. I adjust the vents toward me and turn the AC blower up. Laying my head back against the seat, I close my eyes, hoping I'll wake up in my bed realizing that this was all a horrible, bizarre nightmare.