In one moment Chaim was rushing toward Oakley, knife held at the ready. He remembers an errant piece of concrete catching his toe, throwing him off balance, and then a baseball bat that came swiping against his jacket, and then he was falling. He doesn't remember the sight of the ground coming up to meet him, but he remembers the sensation. He remembers feeling where the ground should have been, but he kept falling, as if he was falling right through it, as if at any moment he would hit, but it never happened, the ground never came. There he was, limbs locked, waiting for his head to knock concrete, so he could stand up again, and finish was Oakley and his boys, but most importantly Sarafin had started. All he needed to do was hit the ground, so he could get back back up, look Oakley in the eyes, and run that fragger through.
And then he's on his back, looking up at . . . Kubiak? Immediately Chaim recognizes that he's not down at Sarafins. He's inside for one. And the air feels different, and Kubiak wouldn't be out at Sarafin's anyway, right? Still, he bolts up, seizes a knife from around his ankle, and sits up to put eyes on Oakley. Instead, he's met with the incredulous eyes of his friends. Their expressions betray residual fear, concern, amazement maybe.
The talking going on around Chaim doesn't make much sense to him. "Sarafin's gotta pay? Pay for what? What pile of drek are you chummers talking about?"
The way that everyone is looking at him makes Chaim very uncomfortable. Quickly he figures that he must have been knocked out, but he feels fine. He's had worse from the punk kids down at school, and they were just swinging fists. "Come on, guys. I was just out for a second. You guys are looking at me like I'm bleeding out my ears or sumin."