Fifteen Dollars

December 31st, a quiet night planned at home. Pizza and ice cream, Dick Clark, and the Waterford ball’s gleam will make the night complete. My afternoon is spent standing in line at the pizza shop and the custard counter, cheerfully exchanging wishes of “Happy New Year” while ordering pepperoni and sausage. Without much thought or attention, I pull two crisp bills from my wallet to fund our appetite. Fifteen dollars is a small price to pay for an evening of enjoyment, is it not?

Five hours before a new year begins, and the slate is again wiped clean, a shrill beeping sound interrupts the festive atmosphere. “Trauma alert,” the pager reads: “GSW to the thigh, times two, twenty-two year old male.” We stand by the doors of the trauma room, waiting to greet the incoming patient. A whoosh of crisp December air hits our faces as the doors to the ambulance bay open; a young man in bloodied clothes, appearing barely old enough to drive a car, lies listless on the stretcher. As in a well-choreographed dance, the perfectly synchronized team moves the body in one graceful motion to the bed. While the doctors peel back the bandages on his right and left thigh to reveal two gaping wounds, the sheriff recounts the details of the scene. “The patient and a friend were hanging out in his house; they got into a fight over fifteen dollars. The friend grabbed a rifle from the home and fired two shots into the patient.” Two crisp bills from his wallet. Fifteen dollars. An exorbitant price to pay for a youth’s vibrancy and innocence, is it not?

-Julie Owen, 2013