In football, nearly everything hinged on numbers and odds. He considered Dusty’s odds of getting better.
Sixty percent?
Better than half, but not good, given those were the same chances San Francisco had of beating Green Bay in the play-offs. Gil figured blind trust would have to prevail over common sense this time.
Driving to Emporia, Gil went over possible scenarios of what he might say when he met the hospitalized boy and his parents. He knew little about Dillon Marshall’s injuries but heard the boy was in intensive care. Upon his arrival, he went straight to the receptionist and asked for directions.
When Gil saw the boy through the window, he shrank back, his heart in his throat. He would never understand the senselessness of drunk driving. The boy lay immobile in the hospital bed, his head bandaged. A man in a rumpled shirt came to the door where Gil stood and reached out his hand.
“I’m Dillon’s father.” His fatigue lifted slightly into a forced grin. “Nice to meet you, Mr. McCray. I heard you were home, though I never expected you to visit.”
Gil tucked the gift he’d brought under his arm and gripped the man’s hand in a firm shake, hoping to convey his earnest regret. “I’m sorry about your boy.”
“We’re sorry about your horse. I understand he’s still alive.”
Gil nodded. “He’s a fighter. Apparently, your son is too.”
The father’s bloodshot eyes glistened, and Gil looked away.
“Dillon suffered from cerebral bleeding that resulted in a stroke,” the man said. “His speech is impaired, and he’s paralyzed from the waist down. We figure when your horse hit the car windshield, Dillon lost control and smashed into a rock culvert.”
A woman came to the man’s side and placed her hand on his arm. “The doctors say our son may never walk again.” She wiped her tears with a tissue, then blew her nose.
Gil stared through the window at the boy. “Does he know about his friend?”
The father nodded. “The funeral’s tomorrow. He wants to go, but there’s no way . . .”
“May I see him?” At his question, the man opened the door for Gil.
The room smelled like disinfectant, a stench he’d grown to despise. He’d been in enough hospitals to last a lifetime, both to visit those who were ill and for his own football injuries. This time was no different. The medicinal odor and confined space made him claustrophobic, made him wish for fresh air.
White bandages hid Dillon’s face.
“Hi, there.” Gil offered the signed football he’d brought and laid it on the covers. “I understand you’re the one who ran into my horse the other night.”
The boy’s lashes blinked and his head moved ever so slightly.
“I’m Gil McCray, quarterback for the 49ers. I’ve been banged up pretty bad from my time on the field, but I think you’ve beaten me, hands down. Are you in much pain?”
Again, the head nodded.
An IV and various clear tubes trickled medicine into the teen. “They probably have you doped up pretty well, and that’s a good thing, believe me.” Gil smiled, growing uncomfortable despite the many times he’d visited kids in hospitals. Even his work with the foundation, which sponsored anti-drinking-and-driving campaigns in schools throughout the nation couldn’t prepare him for the one-on-one talks with kids. Never easy, but especially difficult this time.
He sat in the chair next to the bed and grabbed the football, wanting a familiar object to give him courage to say what needed to be said.
“I’m sorry about your friend.” Gil stared at the bandaged boy, concentrated on the sterile dressings rather than the inner wounds. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you care about. When I was your age, I lost my brother. He died in a vehicle accident the same way your friend did. He’d been drinking, and it cost him his life.”
Gil clutched the football with both hands and squeezed it until his fingers turned white. “His accident’s haunted me for a lot of years. I don’t want to preach, but I hope you understand the magnitude of what’s happened. Your friend died, but God’s given you another chance . . .”
THAT EVENING AFTER SUPPER, GIL LOUNGED ON THE SOFA, HIS FEET propped on the coffee table. His dad sat across the room in his recliner, the television remote in hand.
“How is the Marshall boy doing? Jake said you went to see him in the hospital.”
Gil’s lips scrunched together as he stared at his leather loafers. “Not good. He’s alive, but he doesn’t have much to look