Free The Orion Plan by Mark Alpert

well—it was just twenty miles from her own hometown. She and this unfortunate white man came from the same county.
    â€œJoe?” She raised her voice. “Are you all right?” Dorothy stepped toward the mud hole, her slip-on shoes sinking into the ooze. She was probably getting worried over nothing. In all likelihood, he’d simply passed out a bit earlier than usual today. But she approached the collapsed box anyway and listened carefully for the sound of his breathing. She heard nothing and got even more nervous.
    Bending over, she gripped the crumpled edge of the box and pulled it up so she could look inside. Joe lay on his back but it was hard to see his face in there. He still didn’t move. On the front of his Yankees jacket was a footprint of dried mud. Did somebody step on him? Or kick him?
    â€œJoe, wake up!” She shook the box, rocking him. “Talk to me!”
    He shuddered and began to cough. Her first reaction was relief: Thank the Lord, he’s alive! But then he winced and clutched the sides of his chest and she saw how much pain he was in. He’d clearly taken a beating. He needed a doctor. Could she convince him to see one, though? That was the tricky part. She’d seen homeless people suffer unimaginable agonies rather than go to the hospital. Many of them were terrified of doctors. Others simply didn’t want to be forced to do anything. They hated any infringements on their freedom, which in most cases was their last remaining possession.
    Dorothy’s mind was racing. She took a deep breath and muttered a prayer to calm herself. “Tell me, where does it hurt? Is it your ribs?”
    Joe nodded. Then his eyes opened wide, as if he’d just remembered something important. “I have to … let me…” His hands trembled in distress. He clawed at the box, struggling to wriggle out of it.
    â€œWhat are you doing? You’re gonna make it worse.”
    She tried to stop him but he was too determined. Grimacing, he slid out of the box and rose to his feet. He glanced up and down the hillside, squinting in the evening light. Then he cocked his head and stared at the ground under the box, which rested on a foot-high mound at the center of the mud hole. It looked like a giant mud pie, shaped by hand to make a soft platform for the box. He studied the mound closely for several seconds, wincing and clutching his chest all the while. Then he turned back to Dorothy.
    â€œIt’s okay … I’m all right.” He spoke in short rasps, wheezing in the intervals. “Thank you … for checking on me.”
    â€œWhat happened? Was it that gang you told me about? The teenagers who were bothering you a few days ago?”
    â€œI’m fine … really.”
    â€œDon’t try to play me, Joe. Those kids kicked the crap out of you. You need to go to the emergency room.”
    He attempted to smile, but instead he grimaced again. “It’s not … so bad. The rib’s cracked … not broken.”
    â€œYou’re being foolish. You need X-rays.”
    He shook his head. “I’ve had cracked ribs … before. There’s nothing you can do … except give it time to heal.”
    Dorothy frowned. This was just plain stubbornness. Joe was a smart man, but he was also an alcoholic, which meant that the most important thing in the world to him was finding his next drink. And he knew there was no malt liquor for sale in the emergency room at Columbia Presbyterian.
    â€œWhat are you gonna do until it heals?” she asked. “You think the booze is gonna take away the pain?”
    This came out a little meaner than she’d intended. Her frustration was making her snap at him. But Joe didn’t get upset. He tried to smile again, and this time he succeeded. “I’ll just get … some aspirin. That’s the best medicine … in the world, you know.”
    She