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front of me. 
    “I followed your car,” she said.  Her face was very pale.  “I’ve decided to trust you.”
    She fell to the floor. 
    I scrambled to pick her up, putting one hand under her knees and another beneath her shoulders and lifting her off the sidewalk.  There was a sheen of sweat on her face, and her chest moved rapidly.  Her eyes fluttered open. 
    “I’m going to drive you to the hospital,” I said, lurching toward the car.
    “No!”  She squirmed in my grip, ripping herself away from me and dropping to the ground again.  She swayed.  “You can’t take me to the hospital.”
      I looked up and down the street.  Boys were playing handball against a garage door a few houses down.  There was no one else around to help. 
    “Come inside,” I said. 
    I offered my arm to steady her, but she edged away from me, limping toward the house.  The mention of hospitals seemed to have spooked her.  She leaned against the house as I fiddled with my keys at the front door.  Finally, I opened it, and she limped over the threshold.  As I shut the door behind us, her eyes darted up and down the street, like she was scared someone might be following her. 
    “Are your parents home?” she said, eyeing the hallway that led to the kitchen.  If it was possible, she had gotten paler.  Her skin was the color of the moon, her lips bloodless and dry. 
    “No, they’re still at work.”
    “Good.  You can’t tell them about this.” 
    She lifted her left pant leg, revealing an arrow gauged deep in her calf, blood oozing down her ankle.  The arrow was long and very thin.  It seemed to be made out of metal, jutting from her leg for roughly ten inches.  The end of it was made of red plastic, like a dart. 
    “What...?” I said.
    “Arrow in leg.  Feeling woozy.”
    “Right.”
    I headed toward the kitchen, indicating for her to follow me.  I pulled out a chair at the table, and she slumped into it. 
    “Water?” she said.
    I grabbed a glass, thrust it under the faucet, and filled it.  When I brought it to her, she ripped it from my hands and gulped it all down in one breath.
    “Are you okay?” I said. 
    “Dizzy.  I think the arrow’s poisoned.  You need to pull it out.” 
    I gulped.  She pulled up her pant leg again, revealing the metal arrow jutting from the pale muscle of her calf.  The edges of my vision darkened for a moment, like I might pass out, but I willed myself back into focus.  The girl breathed shallowly, her head tilted back against the chair.
    “I can do it,” I said.
    Her eyelids fell shut.  “Great.” 
    I dropped to my knees and reached for the arrow.  Blood dripped down her leg, pooling on the floor.  I didn’t like the way the flesh around the arrow looked, swollen and purple.  Was this girl, this flying girl, going to die in my kitchen? 
    “The suspense is killing me,” she said faintly. 
    “Sorry.” 
    I grasped the arrow, the metal cool in my hand.  I would have to do this very quickly.  Taking a deep breath, I tried to think of carrots in the garden, the way you clutched the green leaves and ripped them from the Earth, freeing their long, orange bodies.  I held the arrow tighter and yanked as hard as I could. 
    “Owwww!” shouted the girl, almost flinging herself from the chair. 
    The arrow slid free.  I held it between my thumb and forefinger.  The end of it, the part that had been buried in this girl’s leg, was sharp like a pencil point.  I brought the point close to my eyes.  A tiny hole blackened the tip, indicating that the arrow was hollow — probably filled with something intended to seep into the girl’s bloodstream. 
    Blood poured from the open wound.  The girl clutched the bottom of the seat, breathing rapidly, her eyes shut. 
    “I’ll be right back,” I said. 
    I bolted up the stairs and swerved into the bathroom, flinging open the cabinet.  A cardboard box of rubbing alcohol, a roll of white bandages, a dispenser