"My God! What are you doing, Paul? Why?"
"He started it," I mumbled childishly.
Jenkins said nothing. He sat where he had dropped, doubled over, his fists pressed into his stomach. I heard a strangled sound as he tried to suck air into his lungs.
Laurie began to cry. I stared at her stupidly. It seemed to be too much trouble to speak again.
"You—you bully!" she choked through tears. "Why did you have to fight him? You didn't have to!"
It would take too long to explain. She really ought to understand that I hadn't wanted to fight. I couldn't explain it all to her now.
She sank to her knees beside Jenkins. "Oh, Bob," she said soothingly. "You're hurt." She glared up at me. "Why do you always have to spoil things? Just when everything was so perfect, why—oh, go away! I never want to see you again!"
She held him gently, pressing his bent head against her bosom like a mother cradling her child. I wanted to tell her that he wasn't really hurt. I was the one who was hurt. Every bone in my body was broken. He'd only had the breath knocked out of him.
But I knew she wouldn't listen, and the effort of trying to convince her didn't seem worthwhile. Nothing mattered. I was dead tired and aching and very old.
Turning, I staggered away across the sand.