I turned again to Miles, the thoughts in my head becoming clearer now. With some alarm, I took him in, sitting four paces away with his hands on his head. He was rocking back and forth ever so slightly. “Miles,” I said, unable to look away. Maybe he was hurt. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He didn’t answer me. By this time, my stomach was sinking with dread, my mind an anxiety-driven machine now. I rolled to my knees and scooted my way over to him. He was probably hurt and bleeding internally somewhere, and I’d never know until it was too late.
