They stood, facing each other, each trying to carry the cooler. Bo released a harsh breath. “Fine. Ruin the surprise.” He let Lucky carry the cooler into the house and place the burden on the table, but opened the lid himself.
Inside, along with the things Lucky’d help pack, were a few items he hadn’t, like a pack of Portobello mushrooms.
For the condemned man’s last meal.
No eating or drinking after midnight. He’d make the most of the hours until then.
***
Lucky lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Outside traffic rolled up and down the street, and a neighbor liked TV loud.
Too damned noisy here. Not like the house. Bo’s attempt at snoring couldn’t match Moose’s, and no Cat Lucky perched on the end of the bed, waiting to attack his toes if Lucky dared move his foot.
This wasn’t home.
Bo rolled over and slung an arm over Lucky’s waist.
Then again, maybe home wasn’t a house.
***
They’d told him he wouldn’t run into his family, but still Lucky crept through the parking lot and into the hospital with his sunglasses on, his body language suitable for a major walk of shame he hadn’t even earned.
Bo didn’t hold his hand while Lucky checked into the hospital, but he stayed close. Nice, modern building, with lots of glass and shiny surfaces. Must be hell to keep clean.
“You can have a seat in here and fill these out.” A yawning nurse handed him a clipboard full of papers and showed them into a deserted office. He plopped down on a butt-ugly red leather couch. Bo sat more gracefully next to him, close enough to place a hand on Lucky’s back or knee every time he tensed to run.
He completed stacks and stacks of paperwork, asking everything from his medical history to what he’d had for breakfast: nothing. Then came the yes/no questions. Hadn’t he answered all these before, except for the food part, online? Forget his eyes—Lucky’s whole body began to glaze over.
Check, check, check. They’d already picked out split-tailed gowns for him, so a bit late to be asking. Half of these diseases he couldn’t even pronounce. “Here. Put your college education to use.” He handed the papers to Bo, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. A trained pharmacist ought to be able to figure things out.
“Family history of diabetes? I can’t remember from when we did this before.”
“My younger brother.” Lucky should’ve printed out the online questionnaire.
“This part is marked ‘optional’, but do you have any religious preference?”
Lucky opened one eye. “Any that say ‘whatever you do is fine by us’? What’s yours?” Funny, he’d never asked about religion in all their time together.
Bo answered without looking up. “Catholic mom, heathen dad.”
Oh really? “What’s that make you?
“A Cathen. Now, do you want to answer this question? You don’t have to.” Bo’s tensed jaw didn’t mean angry this time. More like worried or scared shitless.
Lucky’s snark—his own method of dealing with scared shitless—should’ve at least gotten a rise out of Bo. Anything beat him being so stressed out. “Mama raised us Baptist. Dad raised us redneck.”
No smile. No raised brow. “That makes you a Baptneck. I’ll check ‘other.’”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, except for the scratching of Bo’s pen on the paper and the occasion person passing by in the hallway.
And overall, the freaky-assed, nose-searing antiseptic stench of hospital cleaner.
After a while a man in a white coat entered, smile too wide to be the angel of death he might turn out to be. He marched straight to Bo. “Mr. Harrison? I’m Dr. Wheeler.”
At a nudge from Bo, Lucky took the doctor’s hand. “I’m Harrison.” Right now. No telling who he’d be next week—if he still ranked among the living.
The man spewed out doctor jargon for the next five minutes, Lucky nodding and throwing out an “uh-huh” or “you don’t say” whenever the doctor paused to let him get a word in.
