Page 18 of Finders Keepers
“Tho what’s the plan for the next couple of days?” Wesley asked. He’d had been hungrier than he’d thought but still didn’t consume everything he’d been served.
Nate swallowed, having made a decent sized dent in his sunny mound. “Well, you’re gonna continue to recover. You’re not even twenty-four hours removed from the assault. So if you’re not sleeping, you’re lounging in bed or on the sofa. Shower as often as you want. Limit screen time for another twenty-fours probably. Trust me, it’s gonna take a while for your brain to heal. Then in all likelihood you can watch tv or mess around on your phone for short stints as long as your symptoms don’t worsen. My books are all packed somewhere, but I can pick up some magazines or some books if you’re a reader. Just let me know. You can listen to music, too, I think as long as it’s relaxing.
“Speaking of phones, give me your cell number.” Once that was done, Nate said, “As for me, I need to meet with the equipment manager tomorrow to fit my new gear—so I could grab books or magazines while I’m out. Make a list of any toiletries you need that we can order from Baker’s, and I can pick those up as well.”
“That’s really thweet of you—and generous—but the grocery store doesn’t have clothes and if I’m gonna be here longer than another day or two, I can’t keep wearing yours.”
Nate’s eyebrow arched and his eyes slid to Wesley’s discolored chest.
Wesley breathed a laugh, careful not to expand his muscles too much. “You know what I mean.”
Nate grinned.
“Just how long were you planning on letting me stay anyway?”
“Well, I…” Nate fiddled with his phone. “I dunno. The doctor said a few days, so a few days.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” Nate nodded.
“Well then, instead of store run, can I impose on you to drive me to my house and let me grab my own toiletries and clothes. I’ll pay for your gas.”
“I can do that. When I get back from the practice facility, we can head to Plattsmouth.”
“Okay, thanks. That sounds good.”
* * * * *
Wesley blinked awake in the darkness. He wasn’t sure what had woken him. Maybe the soft hum of the air conditioner kicking on, maybe the upstairs neighbor, maybe nothing, but it was still the middle of the night. Once again bolstered by Nate’s huge bed pillows, he rolled to his side, closed his eyes, and nestled in. He breathed deeply and evenly. Then again. And again. Pressed his eyes closed a little tighter. Breathed deeply once more.
When drowsiness didn’t overtake him within a few minutes, he pictured and named crayon colors, one by one.
Red.
Orange.
Yellow.
Blue.
Green.
Purple.
Black.
Brown.
White.
Gray.
And on and on.
Carnation pink. Apricot. Bluetiful. Cerulean. Indigo. Scarlet. Cadet blue. Chestnut. Melon. Peach. Sky blue. Tan. Timberwolf. Wisteria. Burnt sienna. Cornflower. Goldenrod. Granny Smith apple. Lavender. Macaroni and cheese. Mahogany. Mauvelous. Purple mountains majesty...
Wesley huffed. Well, crud. If he was already reaching deep into the sixty-four pack of Crayola crayons, sleep clearly wasn’t in his immediate future. It seemed he’d gotten enough rest, and now that he took stock, in addition to the actual soreness related to his injuries, his back ached slightly and his legs felt twitchy, the way they did when he’d spent too many hours lying on his sofa, binge watching episode after episode of “Hell’s Kitchen” or “Chopped.”
