Free What Dies in Summer by Tom Wright

consciousness is continuing
to come up. I don’t think we’re dealing with any kind of acute bleed here but let’s go ahead and get a skull series anyway, just to be on the safe side.” He looked back at
me. “How’d this happen to you, Biscuit?”
    “Uncle Jack did it!” blurted L.A. There was a hot look in her eyes as everyone turned to her. She put her hands in her pockets and looked away.
    “We were boxing,” I said.
    “That’d be you and Uncle Jack?” said the doctor with a glance back at L.A. She nodded. I nodded too but immediately stopped myself and put a hand on my head to settle the
pain.
    “So the two of you, you and Uncle Jack, were boxing and you happened to get knocked out. That right?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Any idea how long you were out?”
    “No sir. My gloves were off when I came to. Mom was home.”
    Dr. Colvin didn’t seem to like the sound of that at all. He peeled back my eyelid for another look, saying, “And Jack, did he do anything to help you, call for help or
anything?”
    “No sir, I don’t think so.”
    The doctor nodded, but he wasn’t happy.
    “You look like maybe a welterweight to me—that about right?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Well,” he said. He clapped me on the shoulder and turned to the nurse. “Let’s get this slugger admitted, make sure we don’t have any slow leaks.”
    The nurse nodded.
    “Did you say there was already a chart?” said the doctor, and she nodded again, handing him a thick folder.
    “Wow,” said Dr. Colvin, looking at me over his little glasses. “Not your first visit with us, I see.” He took the file and sat on a small wheeled stool to read it.
    “Spiral fracture, left humerus, three ribs, different dates,” he said to himself as he flipped through the folder, his neck gradually reddening from the collar up. “Mandible,
possible bruised spleen. Jesus Christ, who’s been seeing him?” He checked. “Ferraro,” he said, looking up and closing the folder. “New York asshole.” He breathed
for a while as he looked at the nurse. “This goes back over three years,” he said to her, his teeth showing. She nodded as if she were somehow responsible. “Get him an ice
pack,” he said.
    “Yes, Doctor.” The nurse squeaked away along the polished floor of the hall in her rubber-soled shoes.
    Dr. Colvin gave L.A.’s shoulder a pat as he passed her, then walked off toward the nursing station. A couple of nurses glanced up at him and moved out of his way. We heard the front doors
open and saw Mom and Jack coming in. Jack was now dressed in cowboy boots, starched jeans and a yellow polo shirt. Mom was wearing her weekend-shortest black skirt and high heels, her hair pinned
back on one side like an actress. Dr. Colvin saw them heading toward the examining room I was in and stopped as they approached. They stopped too.
    “Might you be the parents?” he said.
    Mom said, “Yes. How is he?”
    Dr. Colvin looked Jack up and down, then turned back to Mom as he answered. “He’s had a concussion. Right now it doesn’t look too serious, but he’s going to have to stay
with us at least until tomorrow. We’ll need to see how he does over the next twelve hours.” He moved off again toward the nursing station as they talked, still shooting looks at Jack,
and they trailed along with him. I lost track of what they were saying. The nurse came back with the ice pack.
    L.A. poked me in the chest with her finger. “Why the hell’d you have to go over there?” she said. “You’re just a
dumb”— jab —“fuckin’ ”— jab —“numb-nuts, y’know that?”
    “Lee Ann,” said Gram.
    This kind of stuff was not what I wanted to hear. I wanted sympathy. I looked at Gram, saying, “Think they’ll let me have some aspirin, Gram?” I balanced the ice pack on my
head with one hand.
    “Shit-for-brains,” said L.A. Gram fired a look at her, which I knew would shut her up for maybe five seconds.
    “I don’t know, James,”