A gallon of redness had already splashed onto the bare floor. The one pouring liquid over his head began to work the clots at the edge of the wound with a gloved finger.
His face puckered, and he began to holler a deep “aaaah, aaaah, aaaah.”
I wished they had told me to leave. I held his hand and repeated that he would be fine and that it would all be over soon.
The doctor made his way behind him and started pushing a stitching needle through the open flap of skin.
He no longer yelled about chips and sandwiches. His sounds were reduced to a continual low moan, “oooh, oooh, oooh.”
He squeezed my hand until it hurt, so I pulled it away. When his head was closed, they brought him apple juice in a plastic container with a peel-back lid. He opened his mouth, but before he could complain, a sandwich in brown wax paper and a bag of baked Sun Chips appeared as well. He was silent until all three were in his belly.
“Can you give me a ride home, Sweetheart?” he asked.
I smiled at him and patted his hand.
“Just a minute,” I said.
I sneaked through the opening in the curtain and passed by his mother who was reading a magazine and drinking a Coke in the waiting room. The automatic doors slid open, and I stepped into the fresh 4:00 a.m. air. The stars twinkled in that dull city way that they do. If I need excitement, I thought, I can jump out of airplanes or go ziplining. I didn’t imagine I would suddenly get it a hundred percent right, but I knew I could start by staying away from what was unquestionably wrong. I pulled out my phone, blocked his number, slipped into my car, and headed home.