Free The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen Page B

he didn’t have insurance. His truck wasn’t even legally registered. He had current tags, but the police think he peeled them off another vehicle to avoid getting stopped.”
    I let this sink in. “But … who does he work for? Don’t
they
have insurance?”
    She sighs. “He worked for himself. He was a freelance junk hauler and got paid by the job.”
    “So that’s it? There’s no insurance, no money?”
    “Well, he’s still liable, or his estate is now. And he did own property—a sizeable chunk of it up near Penn Lake, where his widow lives.”
    “So … what, then? Will she have to sell it to pay for the hospital bills?”
    My mother nods. “Yes, but of course she doesn’t want to, so she’s hired a lawyer to fight it. Meanwhile, the school district and the bus company are both claiming no fault and so far haven’t picked up any of the expenses.”
    “Wait. The busses aren’t owned by the school?”
    “That’s right. Apparently they’re owned by a subcontractor with separate insurance. It’s all very complicated,with lots of people in lots of offices claiming it’s not their liability.”
    A question hovers in my mind.
    “But … don’t
we
have insurance?”
    My voice is small because I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.
    “We do on your dad—health, life, disability.… We’ve got the works on him.” She shakes her head and wipes the juice up with a napkin. “We
used
to have it for the rest of us, but the cost was so high that we let it go … and we never imagined this.”
    I let this all sink in, then ask, “So who’s been paying the bills?”
    Her lips pinch together as she breathes in through her nose. “As I said, it’s going to take some time to sort this out.”
    “But meanwhile? And how much money are we talking about?”
    “Meanwhile, it is
not
your job to worry about this. It will all work itself out, okay? Your sole focus should be getting back into life.” She smiles at me. “Which it sounds like you did a great job of today.”
    I’m quiet. Thinking.
    She gets that way too.
    Then she stands and clears our paper plates. “If you don’t mind,” she says softly, “let’s keep this conversation between the two of us. I don’t know who your dad would be madder at—your coach or me.”
    Keeping it between us is not hard to do. Dad works lateand then is gone early. He hasn’t been around much since I came home from the hospital, and now I understand why.
    I still have to see doctors.
    I still need to get a leg.
    Someone has to pay the bills.

 
    S ATURDAY I SUBMERGE MYSELF in homework. I actually like it, which feels odd. Homework has always been something to dread.
    Now it’s something I can
do
.
    I try hard not to think about the team running at the Glenwood Relays.
    I try to block out memories of the fun we had there last year.
    I try to block out how the last invitational ended.
    Dad and Mom and Kaylee move me back into my bedroom on Sunday because I insist on it. I’m good at scooting up the stairs now. I hop around everywhere, or use the crutches. I can actually pinch a crutch with my armpit and carry something while I move.
    And I discover crawling.
    Rediscover, I suppose. I don’t know what took me so long to try it. It’s quicker than hopping, but I only do it on rugs or carpets—and only when I’m alone, because seeing me crawl really bothers my mom.
    Sunday night I take a shower. It’s gotten easier, especially now that Dad’s bought a real shower seat and installed a step on either side of the tub curb so I don’t have to land on the door guide.
    I do my usual routine, then shut off the water and treat my stump the way I’m supposed to. I massage it, rough it up with the hand towel, beat it with the towel folded.… It can take a lot more pressure than it used to, and I push the towel therapy until I can really feel it.
    Even with the rough treatment, there is no shooting pain. And the scar’s red, but it’s no longer tender or