I hoped, wished-prayed, even-that I’d pass out. No luck. I heard a muffled trumpeting sound and was puzzled for a moment before I realized it was me, screaming around the stick clamped in my teeth. Some blood started to trickle from my side onto the table. I focused on the blood, watching it spread into a small, irregular pool.
“The bleeding’s good,” Dr. McCarthy said. “Helps clean out the wound.”
“Uh,” I moaned around the stick.
“Almost done. . there.”
Darla reached up and took hold of the stick. I couldn’t unclamp my teeth from it.
“Leave it there for now,” Dr. McCarthy said. “We’ll let the punctures bleed for a bit, then I’ll clean and bandage them. He’ll need the stick for that. I’m going to get fresh water and antiseptic.” He left the room.
“Can I let go of your legs for a minute?” Darla asked me.
I nodded weakly.
Darla pulled her sleeve over her hand and used it to wipe the tears from my face. Until then, I hadn’t even been aware I’d been crying. “You’re a tough guy, you know?”
“Uh,” I moaned.
Darla gently wrapped her arms around my shoulders and pressed herself against me. She softly kissed my eyelids, right then left. “Love you,” she whispered.
“’Uv ’ou ’oo,” I grunted back.
Dr. McCarthy came back into the room carrying a basin of water and two small bottles. “I leave for thirty seconds, and you’re making out in my operating room? Teenagers.”
Darla quit hugging me and glared at him, but he ignored her as he prepared to wash my wounds. I caught the hint of a smile peeking out of the corner of his mouth.
Washing and rebandaging the wounds didn’t hurt as badly as the cutting had, but there were still fresh tears for Darla to wipe away. It took a couple of minutes for me to relax enough to release the stick from between my teeth.
A wave of exhaustion washed over me. It was late afternoon, nowhere near bedtime, but I was suddenly so tired that I could barely sit upright. I stumbled to my feet. Darla grabbed my arm, concern plain on her face.
“I’m okay. Just tired.” I didn’t want her to worry.
She helped me down the hall to the exam room we’d slept in the night before, and I stretched out on the cot. My last thought before I drifted into unconsciousness: Why couldn’t I have passed out half an hour earlier?
Chapter 10
Darla’s snoring woke me. She didn’t snore all the time, but when she did, she sounded like a hibernating grizzly.
She’d left an oil lamp burning as a nightlight. I watched her sleep for a while as she lay curled up on the exam table. Her face was gorgeous, golden in the lamplight, although the effect was ruined by the flutter her nostrils made with each rip-roaring snore.
I thought about waking her-sometimes a gentle shake would be enough to end her snoring. But we’d both had a long day yesterday. And my side hurt badly enough that I didn’t think I could get back to sleep, anyway.
I rolled out of bed. I was dressed, but my boots were propped upright beside the cot. Darla must have taken them off me. I slipped on my boots, picked up the lantern, and went to peek out the back door of the clinic. It was pitch black and bitterly cold outside-still sometime in the middle of the night.
I closed the door and went back down the hall to the room the bandit occupied. He was curled on his left side under three blankets. Most of his face was hidden, covered by long hair and a scraggly beard. The one eye I could see was open, shining in the lamplight as he stared at me.
“You ready to talk?” I asked.
He tried to say something but started coughing instead. He hacked a huge wad of greenish phlegm onto the sheet. “Need to pee something fierce,” he said finally.
I sighed. “Bathroom doesn’t work. You want to go to the pit toilet outside or use a bedpan?”
“Try to get up, I guess.”
“Okay.” I grabbed a rag from the desk and tossed it at him. “Wipe up your mess first so you don’t smear it everywhere.”
He dabbed feebly at the phlegm, then dropped the rag on the floor. I scowled at him, picked up a clean corner of the rag with two fingers and tossed it into the laundry bin. He started to push himself upright, got to about forty-five degrees, and cried out. He grabbed his right side and collapsed back into the bed. When he regained his breath, he said, “Better use the bedpan.”
“Tell me when you’re done,” I said when I returned with it. “I’ll wait in the hall.” I left the door cracked so I’d hear if he tried to get out of the bed.
It seemed like a long wait. I remembered having to use a bedpan while I was staying at Darla’s house after I’d been injured by Target the year before. Actually, what I used was her mother’s second-best bread pan. We never did tell her mother about that. The memory of Mrs. Edmunds sat heavy in my chest. I’d known her for less than three weeks before she was murdered, but still, I missed her.
I’d be dead now if not for her. She’d shown me a kindness I could never repay-a kindness that moved her to welcome a bleeding stranger into her home.
“Done,” I heard from the exam room.
I went inside and took the bedpan from the bandit. It sloshed with urine so dark it was almost orange. I carefully set the stinking pan on the desk and lowered myself into a chair. “So, Ralph, you got that-”
“Ralph? Who’s Ralph?”
“You said your name is Ralph.”
“I did? When?”
“Last night.”
“Don’t remember that. No, I’m Ed. My dog’s name was Ralph.”
“Huh, wonder why you told me your name was Ralph?”
He twisted his head and stared at the ceiling.
“I need to know where you got that shotgun,” I said. “Blue Betsy, remember?”
“Why am I here?”
“Because I need to know where the shotgun came from.” This was getting old. “Trust me, I’d have preferred to leave you where you were. You’d have bled out or frozen to death.”
“Might’ve been better if you had.”
“Yeah. But-”
“You want to know where we got that shotgun. You going to kill me after I tell you?”
“What? No.”
“You’re just going to let me go. Tell me another one, kid. How do they do it here? Hanging? Or a bullet in the brain?”
“Neither. You’ve just got to move on and never come back.”
“Huh.” Ed folded his arms and closed his eyes.
“Where’d that shotgun come from?”
Ed was silent.
I leaned forward and breathed out heavily, staring at him. I had to convince him to trust me, at least a little. “You hungry?”
“Yeah, but you ain’t gonna feed me. Nobody’s got enough food to waste it on half-dead strangers.”
“Wait here.”
He laughed a wheezy, halfhearted cackle. “I can’t even sit up by myself.”
He had a point. I returned to the room Darla and I shared. She was still loudly asleep. I dug through our supplies, pulling out packages of food. I thought about what would impress Ed, but while we had plenty of food, there wasn’t much variety. I settled on a sandwich-two cornmeal pancakes for the bread with a slice of ham and a slab of goat cheese for the filling. Ice crystals shattered off the ham as I cut it, and the slice was hard as a board. We had no way to keep it warm. The cheese crumbled. As a finishing touch I peeled an icy kale leaf off the stack and added that to the sandwich.
Ed was staring at the door when I returned to his room. I put the sandwich in his hands.
“That’s. . for me?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, “Don’t eat too fast. You’ll barf.”
“I know.”
I sat him up, propped against the wall. He took a bite, chewing slowly. He held the sandwich in front of him as he ate, staring at it like a kid with a new iPhone on Christmas morning. Well, like a kid would have stared at an iPhone before the volcano. Now that kid would just toss the useless chunk of metal and glass aside and look for the good stuff: food, clothing, matches, or weapons.