Page 13 of Something Like Winter
Tim sat there, breathing deeply and forcing himself to remain calm. The pain receded a little, but seemed to have reached its minimum level, which unfortunately still hurt like hell. Last time the doctor gave him pills that not only killed the pain but made him feel drunk. Some of those would be good about now.
Tim sat upright. The movers had packed absolutely everything. Maybe that included old prescriptions. Unless things had changed, his mother kept those in a kitchen cabinet. Tim considered several ways he could get there. Finally he sat on the floor and used his three good limbs to move himself backward. That way his leg could drag along the floor without getting hurt. In theory. His ankle still bumped against things and made him suffer for it, but Tim got to the kitchen, pulled himself up on one of the counters, and opened cabinet after cabinet.
His reward was a vintage bottle of pills from 1993. After grabbing a Coke from the fridge, he doubled the recommended dose, chugged them down with half the soda, and started back to the couch. It was that or lay on the kitchen floor. When he made it to the living room, he noticed the clock. He had spent half an hour doing what would normally take a minute. Those pills better work miracles, or he was royally screwed.
In a way, they sort of did. Soon Tim was feeling pretty damn good. His body thrummed with pleasure, even though the pain was still there below the surface. Trying to stand brought the pain back with a vengeance and had him shrieking until he sat down again. Then the opiate haze resumed, soothing him, but he clearly needed help. Tim lay on the couch, wondering what to do and zoning out occasionally until the doorbell rang.
Help had come! He heard the front door open before someone said, “Hello?”
Crap. It sounded like Ben. Then again, help was help. “Hey,” he shouted. “Come in!”
Sure enough, Ben came in the room, still looking guilt-ridden. “Good that you’re here,” Tim said, hoping to bolster his spirits. He needed action, not more apologies “The ankle might be worse than I thought.”
“Yeah.” Ben held up a thick tome with a diagram of human anatomy on the cover. “I think you have a third-degree sprain. Either that or it’s broken. You really need to get to a hospital.”
Tim didn’t need a book to tell him that. He kept a straight face and said as solemnly as possible, “Probably should.”
“Er, I know this is a really stupid question, but are you all right?”
“Yeah. After you left I dragged my ass into the kitchen and remembered some pills from last time. They’ve got me feeling…” Floaty? Cosmic? Rainbow flowery? “Oh man,” he said instead.
“I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No, fuck that. I’m not dying or anything. We’ll take my car. You can drive, right?”
“Um… Yes?”
“Well, get me up and we’ll be on our way.”
Setting aside the book and approaching the couch, Ben wrapped an arm around his back. He was still warm from being outside, and his touch felt good on Tim’s cold skin. Lying on the couch for so long in his jogging clothes probably hadn’t been the best idea, but soon they were standing outside in the heat.
“Actually,” Tim said when he saw his beloved car, “just get me seated and I’ll drive.”
“With one foot?”
“Yes,” Tim said slowly. “That’s usually how it’s done.”
Ben shook his head. “You’re too doped up.”
“And you can’t rollerblade without killing someone,” he countered. “You’re not dead yet,” Ben said defiantly.
Tim laughed. This guy really was crazy. “All right, fine. You can drive. But be careful.” He wasn’t laughing for long. As soon as he was in the passenger seat, Tim braced himself for disaster. He even flinched when Ben jammed the key into the ignition, as if he could make the car explode just by doing this. Instead, the engine growled like it always did.
Tim relaxed into the seat, but his repose didn’t last for long. Ben drove like he was in a dream, Tim suffering the experience like a nightmare. Ben made casual conversation, twisting the wheel at the last second to avoid bikers, pedestrians, or oncoming traffic. Maybe an ambulance would be taking him to the hospital after all, but only after Ben wrecked his car. Now it was all too clear how he had managed to crash into Tim while rollerblading.
By some miracle, they reached the hospital without creating extra victims to bring with them. Ben pulled up to the emergency entrance, where he jumped out of the car and snagged a wheelchair. That was a welcome convenience. Once inside, Tim expected a team of concerned doctors and nurses to rush him down hallways on a gurney, like they do in the movies. Instead they sat in a waiting room with other despondent souls and struggled with paperwork.
When a nurse finally called his name, Ben wheeled Tim into another room… where they waited some more. But first she and Ben helped Tim onto the examination table. He was getting sick of being so helpless. The nurse took his vital signs and promised the doctor wouldn’t be long.
Tim sighed and glared at his ankle. “Can’t you do that thing where you twist it real fast, I scream, and then I’m miraculously better?”
“That’s only for dislocated bones,” Ben said, “but I can give it a try anyway.”
“Nah. Better not. So what did that big medical book of yours say? Think I’ll need a cast?”
“Honestly, they’ll probably just amputate.”
“What?”
