“Everyone’s rooting for you,” Sean said, standing the card up on the bedside table. “And there are a lot of angry people in the community. We won’t let this get swept under the rug.”
Panic bloomed in my chest, and I looked to Jere. “What happened?”
He was next to me in an instant, his hand squeezing mine. I couldn’t find the strength to squeeze back, but his grip told me he had me. Mom explained to Sean about concussions and memory loss, and I tried to reach for my head, but all I could feel was puffy, scratchy bandages. It seemed like overboard for a concussion. Flashes of color scattered across the back of my eyelids, throbbing with every beat of my heart. I reached for my head again, that thump bordering on annoyance.
“Don’t touch it, baby,” Mom said, taking my hand away.
A knock at the door sounded like a bomb going off in my ears and I winced.
A man in a gray suit and manbun stepped in. I tried squinting at him to make out details, but my eyes had reached their quota for the day. “Mr. Becker? I’m detective Chris Rosemont.”
He took rounds, shaking everyone’s hand and when he got to me, I tried to meet his palm, except I ended up hitting the ice bucket instead, sending cubes scattering everywhere.
“I’m sorry,” I rasped.
Mom and Sean rushed to corral the errant cubes.
Jere explained, “Doc said his motor functions are off. Have you ever tried riding a bike while tipsy?”
The detective chuckled. “I assume you mean the peddling kind.”
“What other kind is there?”
I knew Jere was honestly confused by the detective’s teasing question. As long as I could remember, he’d always been a bit naive and didn’t always pick up on hints. It was a trait I found completely adorable.
“It’s not a problem,” the detective said. He took my wrist and guided my hand to his palm. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Becker.”
“Danny,” I corrected, shaking his hand in jerky movements.
“All right, Danny. I won’t take too much of your time. I’ve got your friend Ronald Patterson’s statement recorded from the night of the incident, but I was hoping maybe you could tell me what happened from your point of view?”
It was strange hearing Ronnie’s deadname, but she’d insisted she wasn’t ready to legally change it. I’d never asked, just accepted her decision. I didn’t detect any sort of malice in the detective's tone as if he was matter-of-factly reading from a legal document.
Recalling he was here because he had questions, I parted my lips… Except, what could I say? “I’m sorry, I don’t remember anything.”
He made a little sound of acknowledgement and seemed to be writing something down on a notepad. “Can you tell me the last thing youdoremember?”
Closing my eyes, I focused on the splashes of colors swirling around. Ronnie’s voice drifted to me as she sang along to a tune—lyrics from a Taylor Swift song. “Karaoke?”
“That was earlier in the day,” the detective said. “All right, I’m not going to press you, but if you remember anything after karaoke, no matter how inconsequential it may seem, I want you to give me a call right away. Even if it’s at two in the morning. Can you do that for me, Danny?”
He took my hand again and placed a rectangle of card stock paper against my palm.
“Yes, sir,” I managed, the conversation draining me.
I tried to read the words and numbers on the card, but they blended into each other in a string of chicken-scratch, and I couldn’t seem to hold my hand steady. I pinched my eyes closed, the blurry vision disorienting. A round of “thank you, detective” bounced around and the man left. The permanent beat in my skull started to pound as if a construction crew had taken up residence and I reached for my head, except Jere took my hand away again.
“Jere… Mom… Someone tell me what the fuck iswrongwith my head.” It was the clearest thing I’d managed to say, and I had to grit past the pain to get the words out.
“Baby, try to relax,” Mom murmured, the cloud of her perfume letting me know she’d come closer.
“Danny,” Jere started. “When you came in, you had so much cranial swelling, the only way to deal with it was by opening your skull.”
“I don’t think he needs to hear this,” Mom said through tears.
“He does,” Jere countered. “Danny, it sounds worse than it is.”
I’d heard the words, but my broken brain was having trouble connecting them to their meanings.Cranial swelling? Opening my skull?All the gory scenes from the horror movies I’d watched in my teen years rushed forth. A moan fell from my lips, and I reached out, knocking over the bucket of ice again. Jere’s strong hand was suddenly in mine, his firm grip grounding me.
