"Yeah, you might have internal injuries or something," Mike Boyle put in.
"What the hell does he need my name for?"
I suddenly wondered if I should so quickly dismiss the stranger from suspicion. Hadn't his car appeared rather fortuitously? And hadn't he been racing too fast?
"Yes, I'd better have your name," I said.
"Now, wait a minute, if you think you're going to sue me—"
"I have no intention of sueing, but I'd better have your name. You do have insurance, I suppose?"
"Yeah, but—"
"Do you want me to get a cop, Mr. Cameron," the blond boy asked aggressively.
I looked at the red-faced stranger. "I don't think that will be necessary."
The suggestion of bringing the police into the affair convinced the man. He fished out his driver's license. Laurie Hendricks found a pencil in her purse and wrote out the name and address. Albert Harrison, Trailer G12, 444 San Rafael Road. I got the name of his insurance company and told him that was all I needed. Then he insisted on having my name and address. I hesitated, glancing at the four listening students. Then I realized that it didn't matter. They could easily find out where I lived through the school. I was even conveniently listed in the telephone directory.