He licks his lips, dazed and green-skinned as we stumble through my front yard and onto my porch steps. I grab onto the railing, desperately clinging to the rickety wood, and bring us up together.
“The snow destroys visibility, Mr. Warner. It’s dark out. It’s Friday night, so folks are tired and hardly paying attention.” I carry the dude to the very top step and release the railing for one perilous second to tuck my hair out of my eyes. In that time, Dean’s frame tilts, and his knees turn weak. “Shit!” I grab the rail and cling on for dear life. “This was a bad idea.Terribleidea!” I limp onto the porch and drag him across the wooden surface. Arriving at my door, I push his broad back against the wall, pinning him there with my shoulder pressed to his chest.
It’s not agreatsystem. But it’s a system.
“If you can’t even stand on your own, then wereallyshould head to the hospital.” I jam my thumb against the keypad on my hundred-and-ninety-nine-dollar fancy-pants doorknob, unlocking it with a beep and flashing green lights, then I slide under Dean’s weight again and trudge through the door. “You’re not cognitively capable of making sound decisions right now, Mr. Warner, which means your requestnotto call an ambulance becomes moot. Therefore, bringing you to my house is akin to kidnapping.”
“Jesus,” he drawls, the word turning to a slurring lisp. “What are you? A lawyer?”
“Yes, actually.” I slap my living room lights on and kick my door closed. The locks re-engage with a satisfying buzz. “Iama lawyer, and the law says bringing you here is a freakin’ crime!”
I huff under his weight, walking us three-legged-style toward my couch. I bang my shin on the coffee table, hissing as pain radiates up through my leg, then Iswearsomething pops in my back as I tilt forward and not-so-carefully slide out from beneath his arm.
He falls onto the sofa with a grunt, his chin hitting his chestand his bad shoulder slouching forward. He remains sitting up for all of three seconds, then he tips to the side and grunts.
“This is a really,reallybad plan, Mr. Warner. Traffic incidents like oursmustbe reported to the police. By failing to do so?—”
“I’m the victim in this instance.” He closes his eyes and releases a long, pained groan. “Hitting others and not reporting it is bad, but sinceI’mthe one who was hit,Iget to decide if we call the cops.”
“Mister W?—”
“Just call me Dean.” He blindly snags a cushion and smushes it under his cheek. “Mr. Warner was my father, and he beat my momwaytoo often for me to like that name.”
“He—” Stunned, I snap my lips closed and study the fresh new bruises coloring his jaw. His nose. His eye socket on the left side.Oh God. Is that where his face hit my car? His torso remains wrapped in his thick jacket, but his left shoulder hurts more than anything else. His left leg. His left foot.“Y-you don’t want to go to the hospital because your dad hurt your mom?”
He scoffs. “I don’t wanna go, cos my arm isn’t broken. It’ll be better by morning.”
“You could have internal injuries!”
“Internal injuries go away on their own, too.” His lips quirk up on one side. Puffy and swollen, and irritatingly cute, especially while he dozes in that in-between place, not yet asleep and not quite awake. “My dad beat me as often as he beat my mom, which means I know firsthand bruised kidneys heal themselves so long as I rest and drink plenty of water.” His eyes flicker open and stop on mine, electric and determined. “I don’t wanna go to the hospital. We’re not making a police report. And you don’t have permission to discuss my medical business with anyone besides me.”
“But—”
Grunting, he pats his hip and searches his pockets with his good hand, sleepy and uncoordinated until, with an exhale of victory, he finds his phone and wallet.
“What are you…” I gulp as he slaps the leather against my palm. “Dean?—”
“Open that for me?”
“Uh…” I open the wallet with shaking hands. “What do you want me to?—”
“Any money in there?” He drops his hand again, too tired to do much for himself. “I got a fiver, right?”
“Er…” I peel the pockets open and find a bunch of bills. Ones. Fives. Twenties. A fifty. “You’ve got a few to choose from. What do you need?”
“Take out a five for me?”
“S-sure.” I select a five-dollar bill and fold the wallet again. “What do you want me to?—”
He grabs my hand, wrapping his palm around my fingers and closing my fist around the money. Then he grins and releases a noisy, trembling sigh. “You’re my lawyer now. We just exchanged cash, which means I get attorney-client privilege.”
“No! That’s not how?—”
“No hospital.” He shuts his eyes and drifts toward unconsciousness. “No police. No reports.”
And then he’s gone, comatose and snoring while his five dollars burn a hole in my palm.
“Shit!”
