Underdawgs

Chapter 9

Blackjack and I wait patiently in line, glancing around at the busy hospital foyer as the line creeps closer and closer to the reception desk.

      'Check it.' Blackjack nods to the left and I look over to see a man who's shoulder is dislocated, his arm sticking out at a bizarre angle.

      'Gross.'

      The line clears and it's our turn to approach the counter.

      A young woman sits at a computer, tapping away, determined to get through the mountain of admissions she has to process. She looks up as we approach and I instantly see suspicion in her eyes.

      'Hi,' she says. 'How can I help you?'

      'Um, we're here to visit a friend of ours,' Blackjack offers in the most civilised voice he can muster. 'Daniel Jefferson.'

      The receptionist gives us the once over and I raise my eyebrows in response.

      'And what is your relationship to the patient?' she asks, narrowing her eyes.

      'Like Jack said,' I pipe up, 'we're close mates. He's like our brother.'

      The receptionist looks us over again and nods. She turns back to her computer and types DJ's name into her database. A look of sympathy comes over her face. 'Room 704, fourth floor,' she reads out to us, her voice warmer. 'Seeing some close friends might do him good. He's been very quiet since we bought him in and refuses to speak to anyone but his doctor and two other young gentlemen who came in last week.'

      I grin, trying to work out how she came to the term 'gentleman' to describe Kev and Spike.

      'Thanks,' we say in unison, and head for elevators to take us up to the fourth floor.

                                                                                        ******

We stride out of the elevator and down the hall, looking for room 704. We pass rooms full of patients: victims of car crashes, accidents and violence. I remember these corridors – maybe not these exact ones, but the layout seems all too familiar, like a haunting dream. Cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck and my heart beats faster. I'm not sure if it's about DJ or the last time I visited this hospital.

      Blackjack grabs my jumper and pulls me to a halt.

      'What the ...?'

      'This is the room, man, 704. It's right here. You walked straight past it.'

      'Shit, I'm distracted,' I groan, rubbing my eyes.

      'What's up, cuz? You've been like this all week. What's goin' on?'

      I look at Blackjack and breathe out heavily. 'Nothing,' I lie. 'I was just thinking about DJ.'

      'Well, get it together, man. We're about to go and visit him right now.' 'I'm all right. It's fine.'

      'Come on then.' Blackjack swings the door open and we enter the room.

      It's quiet except for the hum of machines. DJ is propped up in bed, a heart monitor hooked up to his chest, a tube coming out his left nostril. His waist is exposed and I can see a bunch of heavy bandages and dressings.

      He looks up from a notebook he's been sketching in. His face lights up and he makes to get up to greet us but doubles over in pain at the swift movement.