A Scott and John story in which nothing much happens. I think this is what they call realism. Or just practice.
They’re in a side cubicle now, which is a thousand times better than being stuck in the waiting room. Scott’s hands hang loose, his arms stiff against his bent legs. He glances upwards as footsteps pass, but they don’t stop at the drawn curtain. They hurry on, off to another patient. His eyes shift back to the figure in the bed, its chest rising so slowly.
What a way to spend a Sunday.
Virgil’s at home with Alan, probably still trying to reassure him that he didn’t do anything wrong. It was just One of Those Things, an accident. Gordon should have been paying attention, not monkeying around.
An ill-timed push from the treehouse, and awkward landing—and now the kid was doped up on morphine, his leg broken in two places.
There are more footsteps, and this time they stop. Familiar scuffed sneakers turn, and a hand draws back the medical-blue curtain. Green eyes blink, and John steps in, a cardboard carrier with two coffees in his left hand.