Page 20 of Home Game

“I was at the diner. It was raining.”

“Someone attacked you. You’re lucky. A bus driver chased the guy away.”

It was coming back in pieces. The tweaker. Getting grabbed. Being chased. Slipping and sliding. Him jumping on my back. My heart pounded. Something wet leaked down my cheek. Mortified, I realized I was crying out of my good eye. I wasn’t sure if my other eye could even cry.

“Where am I?”

“You’re at Vancouver General Hospital. Can you tell me your name?”

“Zoey.”

“Do you have a last name, Zoey?”

I stayed silent. My bag. It had been under the steps behind the restaurant. Was it still there? My entire life was in that bag. I forced myself to sit up.

“Whoa,” the nurse said. “What are you doing?”

I looked down at my arm. Tape held an IV in place. “Can you take this out?”

“Why?”

“I need to go.”

“We can’t let you go until the doctor clears you.”

“I need to go.” I looked around the room. “Where are my clothes?”

She squeezed my hand. “I will get the doctor and find your clothes if you promise not to rip out that IV yourself. Do we have a deal?”

I nodded. She seemed nice. Maybe she would lend me some bus money and I could take a bus back out there. I needed my bag. My money, my ID, my uniform, all my clothes were in that bag.

I was so anxious I wanted to scream. I needed to get back there. Now.

“So, I hear someone wants to check out of the great white hotel?”

I looked up at a man wearing green scrubs. “I have to go.”

He was reading a chart. “Your vitals are good.” He came around to the side of the bed and held up his stethoscope. “Can I listen to your heart?”

I nodded, and he leaned too close and pressed it against my chest.

He stepped back. “How is the shoulder feeling?”

“Is it broken?”

“No, your shoulder is sprained.”

My entire body felt weak. For a moment I wondered if I would puke. “My stomach hurts.”

“Someone kicked you in the abdomen, but there is no internal bleeding. You will be sore for a while.”

I fought to not cry. “Okay.”

He looked at me with concern. “Can we call someone?”

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

He wrote out something on a pad of paper and handed it to me. “This is a prescription for pain pills. You need to keep that shoulder in a sling for 2-3 weeks. When you’re pain free, you can take your arm out and practice moving it. But don’t push it, okay?”

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