he didn’t break his fall properly. stupid: he knows how to break a fall. it’s one of the first things you learn. don’t land on your elbow. don’t land on your fucking head. conor holds an ice pack there; it’s melting, and it feels like the blood is streaming through his fingers. it’s in his eyelashes. all he can see is blood. he wipes it with his other hand and it comes away red. it doesn’t hurt — at least, he doesn’t feel pain. if he stood up, would he be woozy? ‘it looks worse than it is,’ he says, and his voice comes out steady on its feet, if rough and drawn from the back of his throat. ‘you know head wounds bleed pretty heavy, right? i’m fine.’ what, does he want him to wear a helmet? he snickers, then groans. all right, it throbs a little.