I had collapsed on the grass.

I heard him exclaim “Did it hit you in the face?”

He rushed to where I had collapsed on the grass.

His mouth fell open.

“We have to get to a hospital,” he stammered.

“Really?”

I climbed onto my feet.

“Yes,” he said, “We have to go to a hospital right now.”

“What about the stuff, the tent,” I protested.

“I’ll come back and get it later,” he said, almost condescendingly, “I promise, I’ll come back and get it later.” He took my hand, “Come on,” he said, “Give me your keys.” I handed them over and warily got into the car, too shocked to yet feel pain.

“Our camping trip is ruined,” I said. “Our camping trip is ruined.”

We sped along the park’s twisted lanes beneath big green trees.

It was only when we got on the highway that I glimpsed in the mirror what had become of my left eye. It looked like a red marble.

I started to sob. Drizzle splattered fast on the windshield and he clutched my hand. I had one hand over the eye and my head down and as I whimpered, he gave loud updates as to our location, our proximity to the emergency room, all the while clutching my other hand.

He was a good man. I had known it all along. He was a good man.

It was, even then I knew, the most authentic interaction we had ever had.

I don’t recall feeling panicked or even great pain. There was something about the extremity of this news: that either I would lose my