“You… uh… you okay, man?”
“I’m fine,” I snapped. The lie is automatic now. “Go see your Aunt.”
He didn’t go.
He walked right into the room, pulled out that dusty chair, and sat down. He dropped his backpack on the floor.
“Auntie’s asleep,” he said, shrugging. “Nurse said not to wake her for an hour. I got time.”
His name is Marcus.
He goes to the public high school downtown. He works at a burger joint to help his mom with rent.
He sat there for 45 minutes that first night. We didn’t talk about deep stuff. We talked about the Cavaliers. We talked about how terrible hospital coffee is. He showed me a video on his phone of a dog riding a skateboard.
For 45 minutes, I wasn’t “The Broken Hip in Bed 3.” I was Frank.
He came back Thursday. He came back Saturday.
