Page 50 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“THE GOOD NEWS IS, HIS BACK’S NOT BROKEN,” SAYS A SKINNY doctor in neon-green running shoes as I slip into Chris’s room. He looks at the chart he’s holding and makes a cryptic doctorish noise.

Chris lies in the bed, wearing a light blue hospital gown. Bandages poke out from beneath the gown, and his right arm is in a cast. A bandage wraps around his forehead, covering the nasty cut on his head. His long hair is smushed beneath it. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow.

He looks like a caricature of an accident victim. Someone who’s so injured, it’s almost cartoonish. Except it’s not. And this is real life.

“What’s the bad news?” I say, walking over to Mom and putting an arm around her waist. She stands beside the bed, gripping the bedrail so tightly her knuckles stick out like pebbles beneath her skin.

The doctor looks at both of us. He sucks on his teeth for a moment and puts Chris’s chart down. “The bad news is, your insurance isn’t the greatest. And X-rays and those surgeries we did to set the bones in his arm are expensive.”

“How can you discuss money at a time like this?” The question escapes my lips before I can stop it. I glare at the doctor, knowing it’s not his fault, but taking my frustration and worry out on him.

The doctor shrugs, holding up his hands. “I wouldn’t if I could help it, but it’s hospital policy. We have to inform you of costs and insurance information.”

“We’ll figure it out,” says Mom. She bites on her bottom lip. “What sort of recovery are we facing?”

The doctor drones on. Telling us about physical therapy, what sorts of exercises Chris will need to do, and how his knee is seriously messed up (my words, not his).

I brush a piece of hair from Chris’s cheek. “What about riding? When will he be able to ride a horse again?”

The doctor gives me a flabbergasted look. “Were you not listening? Your brother has a broken arm, torn ligaments in his knee, fractured ribs, and his head is in bad shape. He’ll be on painkillers for a few days, and then we’ll recommend physical therapy. It’ll be a long time before he gets on a horse again.”

There’s a noise from the bed, and Chris groans in his sleep. The pain medicine the doctors have given him must be working, because a smile crosses his face as his eyes flutter open.

“Hey, Kit,” he says. “How’d the garden rake come out?”

I swipe at the tear leaking from my eye as I give him a weak smile. “It didn’t stand a chance.”

“Mr. Sweetly,” says the doctor, coming over to the bed and shining a light in Chris’s eyes. “You’re very lucky. We’d like to keep you here for a few days to keep an eye on your vitals and make sure everything is setting properly.”

Chris nods his head, half listening. Soon, he’s snoring again. Mom follows the doctor into the hallway, peppering him with questions. I pull up a plastic chair so it’s right beside the bed and take Chris’s hand. The machines by the bed beep like video games from the ’80s. I yawn, suddenly exhausted. My fear is still a cold lump in my belly, but at least now Chris has a direction and plan for recovery. I can deal with a plan.

“You can get through this.” My voice is just a whisper. I squeeze his hand as I say it. “I know the Red Knight will ride again.”

23

I’M NOT SURE WHEN I FALL ASLEEP OR WHEN MOM COMES back, but a cheerful nurse buzzes in early on Saturday morning, opening the curtains and shooing us out so she can check Chris’s vitals and give him a sponge bath. A piece of paper covered in numbers falls to the floor as Mom stands up. I get a look at it before Mom snatches it away. “Estimate for Hospital Services” is emblazoned across the top, and at the bottom there’s a big circle around a double-digit number with too many zeros after it.

I want to puke thinking about how we’re going to get that much money.

Still waking up, Mom and I stumble into the hallway and walk toward the waiting room. I clutch my backpack to my chest. All the other Castle staff are gone, but I hope someone told them Chris was awake.

“Coffee?” I ask.

Mom’s bun has come undone and dark circles ring her eyes. She nods and stretches, reaching toward the ceiling like she’s doing yoga.

“Be back soon.”

Shouldering my backpack, I make my way to the bank of elevators. The door opens with a ding. Despite the early hour, it’s crowded with several nurses in scrubs, a woman in a bathrobe, and two sleepy-looking middle schoolers carrying Styrofoam takeout boxes. A gray-haired woman in a pink sweatshirt and rhinestone-covered baseball hat wrinkles her nose when I step into the elevator. She moves to the far back corner, putting as much distance between her shiny self and my rumpled one as possible. My last shower was yesterday morning before training and work. I’m sure I smell fairly medieval right now.

I give up on making my hair behave sometime between the third floor and the lobby. When the doors ding open, the nurses and kids shuffle out.

“You look exhausted,” says the old woman in pink as she walks past me. “My husband’s been in here for two weeks. Best to pace yourself, dear.”

Much to my surprise, she gives me a small, sympathetic pat on the arm.

I smile to myself, buoyed for a moment by the small compassion of a stranger.

The cafeteria is at the end of another long hall. It’s crowded with doctors in white coats, men and women in green scrubs, families getting breakfast, and an enormously pregnant woman who’s moving up and down the cafeteria line, looking like she can’t decide between Jell-O and crying.