I ran two quicksand blocks. My left side was opening and closing, a new vertical mouth. I kept my hand across the opening, scared that the second mouth, like the top conventional one, would now start yowling too. Across the fronts of spice warehouses my voice echoed as I cried for citizens to rally because … it was not just anybody down. It was the prettiest boy in the city now. Was our Robbie down. Eyes! Face! Storefronts seemed mammoth black sandcastles that the next big rain would melt. I found a pay phone but instead of dialing 911 as planned, I heard Angie’s growl, “It’s three a-fuckin’ clock …”

“Angie. Robert and I were walking home …”

And just from this, from knowing my whole sudden voice so well, she started yelling, “Is he … is he … where? He okay? Where?”

“He says his eyes. Meet us at St. Vincent’s.”

The doctor explained that a sort of blindness can happen. The doctor explained it would probably be temporary, probably. The doctor explained. The trauma of a well-placed forehead blow. Our patient would need a lot of care until his sight came back, if it came back, as it likely would in ten days to two months. If not, we should keep the doctor posted.

Me, they sewed up like a pillow.

“No sweat about the care part,” Angie stated. “He is still the prettiest boy in New York, has been this whole past decade as any fool, including you, can probably see.”

“Aha,” the young internist said.

“I like your lab coat. Doctooor … what’s your tag say? ‘Coen.’ Where can I get one, Dr. Coen? You married?”

“Angie, for God’s sake …” She was the limit.

“It’s okay,” said Robert, safe back of bandages. His mouth, without the eyes’ distraction, seemed simple, upturned, and amoral as a cat’s.

He could go home but required watching. We would, gladly. Watch. Him. Unable to stare back at us, and therefore to defend himself, he’d be so darn watched. Now I see what a rehearsal all this was. Now, on rainy days, when the fingertips of my left hand go half numb, I understand that I was also hurt then. But for us, the idea of damage to Robert’s perfect features, his cool eyes especially—that riveted us most.

We’d never done home health care; we all rushed to be of use. We were fairly bad at it. We only wanted to try the fun parts—fresias near the bed, reading his Titanic quarterlies aloud to him. But oh the sight of him padding around his place, arms out, head all gauze, alive by touch, as blind as Justice—which is actually Injustice, having been blinded!