Bornman.

At age thirteen, Levian Hill almost died. On the outskirts of the city, in a small town surrounded by dirt roads and hundreds of acres, he lived. In a centennial home that his brother constantly told him was haunted by a red haired man, he ate eggs in the morning and roast at night. Two brothers he had, Francis and Paul. Francis the older, the one who showed him how to shoot the gun.
Outside in the sunshine, there was a workbench facing away from the house, soda cans and Daddy’s beer bottles lined on the workbench. Only a few feet away from the road it was, but this was the way it had always been.
“A little to the left,” Francis told Levian, who adjusted himself as he was told. Squinting at the bottle, he pulled the trigger.
The air cracked, and down went the bottle, the glass splitting and splintering the blue sky.
“I finally got it…”
“Yeah, good job.”
Four years older Francis was, his brown hair slightly curling behind his big ears, his glasses perched on his nose just so.
Francis then took the gun, aimed at a can, and quickly hit it. It went down easy, and Levian watched his brother in admiration.
Paul was only seven then, and he was inside with Mommy washing dishes.

Then the screech. The workbench much too close to the street. The red car hit the green one and that green pickup went straight into the telephone poll.

The wires went down, sparks flying, the orange light sending a message through Levian’s body.
Run, stupid!
And he did run, but almost not fast enough.
The telephone poll was falling quite near him, he was not a fast boy, his legs short, though muscular.
“Levian!” he heard Francis shout, but these shouts did not matter.
The grass was wet from the morning dew, and Levian’s small foot slipped. He screeched as he went down, falling into a ditch. As he did, his own small life flashed before his eyes like a movie, or so he said later. He saw himself staring at the girl in a funny way, a way he was just beginning to understand. He saw birthday parties and Mother’s Day cards and running to Daddy when he got home from work. He saw Paul being brought home from the hospital.

The slip that saved him. He looked where he had landed, and he looked where the poll had landed. Oh my, so very close.
Francis jumped over the poll and pulled him out of the ditch, his tanned fingers clutching the grass stained t-shirt.
“Levian! Levian!”
Francis’ eyes were tear filled, little brown buckets, the water went over.
Those eyes showed Levian something he had never understood before. How these little moments are all planned and it is so very obvious, when you experience something like death. Or, escape death.
Francis was clutching and rocking, then kissed his brother’s forehead and took him inside to put alcohol on his knees and wipe dirt off his cheeks.