She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,99

closed, his head resting on two pillows. A heart monitor beeped steadily beside him. “I’ve been in here for three weeks, and this is the first time you visit?”

I almost apologized. I nearly told him I wanted to come sooner, that I couldn’t come sooner, things got in the way. I almost said the hospital wouldn’t let me see him, wouldn’t let anyone see him. He’d know that wasn’t true.

Instead, I said nothing.

His eyes still closed, he raised a weak hand in my direction. “Thanks for pulling me out of there.”

I gripped it for a second, then quickly let go. His skin felt damp and clammy.

Dunk said, “I don’t know how you did it, I probably have thirty pounds on you, but thank you, I mean that, man.”

“Who are those guys out in the hall?”

“The cops? I think they’re worried I’ll run. They might be right—even with the bum leg, I think I’m faster than the fat one.”

“Not the cops, the other guys.”

“They’re there to keep an eye on the cops.”

“They think you did this, the police.”

Dunk’s head turned away, toward the window. “I don’t care what they think.”

“They think you had Crocket killed so you could take over his business.”

“And what do you think?”

“I haven’t been able to think much of anything in the past few weeks,” I said quietly.

“Alonzo Seppala killed Crocket.” Dunk shifted his weight. “The squirrelly fuck confessed before he offed himself.” His shoulder twitched under the sheets.

Dunk grimaced. “My everything hurts. What doesn’t hurt, itches. They’ve got me on morphine for the pain, which is great, till it’s not. After the first few days, it made me itch under my skin, like ants running over all my bones. Even if I could scratch, I can’t move much. The doctor said if I shift just a little bit in the wrong direction, the bones might start to heal out of place. If they move too much, they might even need to rebreak something. The leg is bad, but my ribs are the worst. Every time I take a breath, it feels like someone is jabbing at me with a dull knife. One of the bullets tore up my guts pretty good, so no solid food. They’re feeding me through one of these tubes. I can’t imagine what they’re feeding me. You know the weirdest part? I haven’t had to shit since I got here. Can’t be good for me, whatever they’re forcing through the tube.”

“I’m sorry about your dad,” I said.

“He was a piece of shit.”

“Still your dad.”

“He hasn’t been my dad for years.” Dunk coughed, and his eyes pinched shut even tighter. Sweat trickled down from his brow. His tongue licked at his dry, cracked lips. “Is there any water on the table?”

There was a plastic cup with a straw. I filled it from the small pitcher beside it and brought the cup to Dunk, maneuvering the straw into his mouth. His eyes remained closed as he drank.

“Why won’t you look at me?”

Dunk finished drinking, and I set the cup back down on the table. “Sorry, the light hurts. I think it’s from the meds.”

He opened his eyes, looked up at me.

Dunk blinked. “Have you been back to school yet?”

And I knew.

I didn’t want to, but I knew.

I shuffled backward, my knees hitting the other bed. I tried to say something, but I lost all words. I turned, started for the door.

“Jack?” Dunk said. “Jack, wait. Let me—”

I was halfway to the elevator before he finished the sentence.

I would like to say I was strong.

I would like to say I took what happened at Krendal’s and somehow rose from the pain, somehow captured all that was good about my Auntie Jo and Gerdy and all the others I lost that day.

After speaking to Dunk, I left the hospital and wandered the streets of Pittsburgh for nearly five hours.

I walked.

No destination in mind, I just walked.

Good neighborhoods, bad neighborhoods, I didn’t care. I think part of me purposely veered toward the bad neighborhoods, hoping to land in some kind of trouble. Itching for a fight. With each step, my anger boiled, fed upon itself, until there was nothing else. When a bus roared past me, a little too close to the sidewalk, I cursed myself for not jumping in front of it. As I passed the dealers on the street, I stared them down, wondering which ones worked for Crocket, which ones worked for Dunk, and which ones weren’t sure but kept on selling anyway, knowing