Brian heard the clickety clacking of hard-soled shoes against the hospital’s white tiles. Dr. Limerick walk into the room and place a hand on Brian’s leg. Like his face, the hand was soft and pink, the fingers long and slender. He would’ve made a knock-out pianist.
“It’s time for you to go home, young man. We stopped the bleeding two days ago and your digestive system has come back to normal.”
“Thank you, Dr. Limerick.” Brian got out of bed and felt a sharp stab in his abdomen. He wondered how long he’d feel the stabs and the punches. He didn’t dare look at his face in the mirror and relive what they’d done to him at the train station.
“Have you read the newspaper, Brian? While you were unconscious San Francisco had a massive earthquake and big fire, killing hundreds.”
Apparently Brian wasn’t the only one who’d been destroyed in the last week. He walked over to the dresser to change out of this hospital gown and into his own clothes, but nothing. “Would you know where my clothes are?”
“No one brought you a change of clothes?”
“No, there’s no one who visited me.”
“Not your family? What about your parents?”
Brian thought back to the altercation over the boy in Pittsburgh that took place before he got on the train. “My father is dead, and my mother – she and I no longer speak.”
“I will get you a change of clothing and ask an orderly to escort you home.”
Brian tried to hold the truth back from the doctor, but something in his expression gave him away.
“You do have a home, Brian,” the doctor asked and, after a pause, said, “in that case, you’ll come with me. My wife and I have a very large house and you can sleep in the upstairs bedroom awhile. Our church will be able to help you back on your feet.”
Dr. Limerick placed his hand on Brian’s shoulder. Brian flinched at the touch – but these hands were soft and pink, not rough and gnarly. Dr. Limerick wouldn’t strike him.
“And you must call me Martin, Brian.”
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