So there you are, lying on your back in an industrial park parking lot, curled into the sidewalk curb. "Sweet Child of Mine" is in your head, but just the part where Axel Rose is whining, screaming. Something heavy (maybe an elephant?) has fallen on you. You don't remember what it was, only that there was a millisecond when the two of you collided and you tried to push a thousand pounds in another direction. Then, suddenly you were here, tapping your fingers against the curb, trying to act casual. You imagine an elephant strolling through an industrial park, chewing on the landscaping, these buildings like rows of gigantic car batteries.

There is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, uneaten, sitting on the passenger seat of your car. It's only ten feet away. It's waiting for you to come back. There are all of these faces--lips pouted, brows furrowed--leaning over you. A woman--blonde hair and pink lipstick drawn over the lines of her thin lips--is breathing too close to your ear. She looks like she might cry, her fingers worrying over the lines in her forehead. "I'm alright," you hear yourself say over and over again, "I'm alright guys." And you're wondering where the pain is, you're humming "Sweet Child." You're feeling kind of good. Someone makes a joke, or what sounds like it should be a joke. You don't hear the words, just the tone in the voice. You laugh. "I feel fine," you say.

You imagine yourself a kind of hero. You were wrestling an elephant. A rhinoceros? An angel of God? You prop yourself up onto your elbows and look down at your legs. The left leg is bent in a new angle. "Double jointed," you think. Then you see it, your attacker, sprawled out just a few feet from you. A tall, heavy, rectangular thing--blue plastic, gray metal, a row of colorful square buttons. A Pepsi machine. It looks kind of sad, lying there on its side. The plastic front is dented and pieces have come off. You want to apologize. You think about the sandwich in your car. You were about to leave, to drive away, but you stopped to help move this thing.

There are sirens. It was peanut butter and jelly on toasted rye. Your favorite. You imagine it there, alone, the crusts crumbling into the cracks of the car seat. You should be there, behind the wheel, the sandwich in your hands, jelly sticking to your lips.

They ask you questions. Five men in matching pants, all with strong jawlines. They look like fashion models. One has a clipboard, he takes notes.

"Your name," he says.

The blonde lady answers for you. "She's single." She giggles. The man with the clipboard smiles.

"You guys are heroes," you say.

"Date of birth," he says.

"America's heroes."

"Date of birth," he says.

"I was born in a tent," you say. The blonde lady laughs. "I was. Really."

"How old are you, ma'am?" The man's eyes are silver-blue. A man from the crowd leans in and whispers your age. How do these people know so much, you wonder?

"I was going to eat lunch," you say.

"Oh, you shouldn't eat nothin', sweetie," the lady whispers.

Someone is taking off your shoe. You feel blood. These men are strong, you think. They have thick hands.

The clipboard man asks another question, you don't hear it.

"This is nice," you say. "You guys are nice." The man smiles. He asks his question again. A woman from the crowd runs into the building. She comes back with a piece of paper and hands it to the man. "I lost my first tooth when I bit this kid," you say. People in the crowd chuckle. You like that. "They had to test me for rabies," you say.

The man looks at you, sternly, he points a flashlight in your left eye and holds the lid up with his gloved thumb. He feels your scalp. You close your eyes and relax into his palms. "My favorite color is green," you say. You can smell the peanut butter, thickening the enclosed air of the hot car. The toast is soft by now. Your body is heavier than usual. "Sometimes I still try not to step on cracks," you say. "The ones on the sidewalk, you know?" You say. "Do you?" You ask him. The man nods and smiles. "I like to wear horrible colors together," you say. "It gets people upset." The crowd is silent. Someone cuts your sock with tiny scissors. You feel the cold metal. The blonde lady sucks in her breath. She looks like she's going to cry again. "And elephants," you say, "they should be everywhere, don't you think? Like cats. You should see them on the corners, just sitting there."

"Why not?" The man smiles. "How are you feeling? Does anything else hurt you?" He asks, touching your head again.

"I'm okay," you say. "My leg is hot. I feel fine."

"You had quite a break," he says. Break from what, you wonder?

"There's a sandwich," you say, "in my car. Maybe you want it?"

The man doesn't hear you. But you worry about it. You hold an image of it in your mind, a solitary sandwich, unwrapped, a small thing that might go unnoticed. The rough texture of the bread, the paper-like edges of thin crust. No one will know it's there. How long will it have to wait? You wonder. It shouldn't be left alone. You worry.

There are men at each of your corners, they lift you like a precious box, onto the stretcher, and hoist you up over their shoulders. You wave to the crowd, your co-workers, people from the other offices, the other buildings. They laugh and wave back. The men's shoulders wobble a little up and down across the parking lot. You're taking a trip, a ride. You don't feel much pain. Not yet. Just this strange grief, ridiculous grief--it's stronger the further you get from the car, the building, the moment of your collapse--for an uneaten, discarded sandwich.