When the elevator door opened on the third floor, I had no trouble spotting Dunk’s room. Two uniformed police officers sat on one side of the hallway, while two of Dunk’s “friends” sat on the other side—both looked familiar, but I didn’t know their names.
All four men eyed me as I walked down the hallway. One of the uniformed officers asked me to sign a clipboard before entering the room.
I scribbled my name, then pushed through the heavy swinging door.
Although it was twenty past four in the afternoon, Dunk’s room was dark. The blinds were pulled tight, the lights off, the only illumination in the room provided by the television mounted in the far corner—The Price is Righton the screen, the sound off.
The room itself was a mirror image of mine from a few weeks earlier—same size, shape, same two beds. The first empty, Dunk in the second. His leg was raised in a large sling. I expected a cast, but instead, small metal rods ran the length of his leg, the one side connected to some kind of plastic exoskeleton, the other end disappearing down through his skin. I had never seen anything like it.
I stepped closer, my shoes squeaking on the polished tile floor.
Dunk said, “Gross, right? The doctor said it’s called a Hoffman Device. Those things are screwed into my bone.” Dunk’s eyes remaining closed, his head resting on two pillows. A heart monitor beeped steadily beside him. “I’ve been in here for three weeks, and this is the first time you visit?”
I almost apologized. I nearly told him I wanted to come sooner, that I couldn’t come sooner, things got in the way. I almost said the hospital wouldn’t let me see him, wouldn’t let anyone see him. He’d know that wasn’t true.
Instead, I said nothing.
His eyes still closed, he raised a weak hand in my direction. “Thanks for pulling me out of there.”
I gripped it for a second, then quickly let go. His skin felt damp and clammy.
Dunk said, “I don’t know how you did it, I probably have thirty pounds on you, but thank you, I mean that, man.”
“Who are those guys out in the hall?”
“The cops? I think they’re worried I’ll run. They might be right—even with the bum leg, I think I’m faster than the fat one.”
“Not the cops, the other guys.”
“They’re there to keep an eye on the cops.”
“They think you did this, the police.”
Dunk’s head turned away, toward the window. “I don’t care what they think.”
“They think you had Crocket killed so you could take over his business.”
“And what doyouthink?”
“I haven’t been able to think much of anything in the past few weeks,” I said quietly.
“Alonzo Seppala killed Crocket.” Dunk shifted his weight. “The squirrelly fuck confessed before he offed himself.” His shoulder twitched under the sheets.
Dunk grimaced. “My everything hurts. What doesn’t hurt, itches. They’ve got me on morphine for the pain, which is great, till it’s not. After the first few days, it made me itch under my skin, like ants running over all my bones. Even if I could scratch, I can’t move much. The doctor said if I shift just a little bit in the wrong direction, the bones might start to heal out of place. If they move too much, they might even need to rebreak something. The leg is bad, but my ribs are the worst. Every time I take a breath, it feels like someone is jabbing at me with a dull knife. One of the bullets tore up my guts pretty good, so no solid food. They’re feeding me through one of these tubes. I can’t imaginewhatthey’re feeding me. You know the weirdest part? I haven’t had to shit since I got here. Can’t be good for me, whatever they’re forcing through the tube.”
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I said.
“He was a piece of shit.”
“Still your dad.”
“He hasn’t been my dad for years.” Dunk coughed, and his eyes pinched shut even tighter. Sweat trickled down from his brow. His tongue licked at his dry, cracked lips. “Is there any water on the table?”
There was a plastic cup with a straw. I filled it from the small pitcher beside it and brought the cup to Dunk, maneuvering the straw into his mouth. His eyes remained closed as he drank.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
Dunk finished drinking, and I set the cup back down on the table. “Sorry, the light hurts. I think it’s from the meds.”
