Then he was lying flat out on the cement floor of the milking room. His whole body filled with pain.

He was vaguely aware of John yelling somewhere above his head and the distant sound of running steps. He was acutely aware that he was not breathing. Brent thought, Go on, buddy, just breathe in. But nothing happened. No matter how hard he willed his chest to expand and take in air, it refused to move. I'm probably blue by now, he thought He might have laughed if he could have. He felt himself beginning to lose consciousness. Suddenly Uncle George was leaning down above him.

"It's all right," Uncle George said. "Lie still. You'll be breathing in a minute. Just hang on."

The voice was comforting to Brent and so was the first small racking gasp of air that crept into his lungs. The air burned and Brent heard the wheezing sound of his first breathing. Soon the air returned more easily and Brent was able to lie on the cement and inhale without noise and pain in his chest.

"Okay," Uncle George said, "can you move at all now that you have your breath back? Took quite a spill, you know."

Brent pulled his legs up, bending them at the knees. He tried to sit up. The pain made him yell.

"You just lie there quietly and I'll call an ambulance. No sense having you up and marching around when you got so much pain. Hang on a little while. I'll be back."

Uncle George left at a trot and Brent lay back on the cement floor. The pain was bad now. Maybe I broke a bone or something, Brent thought. He wiggled his toes and was reassured that they still moved.

Brent noticed John standing nearby. The little kid's probably scared to death, Brent thought.

"It's all right, John. I'll be fine. It wasn't your fault anyway." It was an effort to talk.