Page 36 of Trig

“She’s good. Just tired. She needs rest. We both do. Tomorrow we’re gone, out of your hair for good, but tonight I need medical attention and we need to stay here, please.” I pull out a stack of cash and hold it up. “Also, we have a new addition,” I say, as I point to their porch swing. “This is my son.”

Doc and his wife turn around in shock, just now noticing him.

“I didn’t know you had a son,” Doc’s wife says, eyeing me.

“Neither did I,” I respond, running my hands down my face.

“Does the boy have a name?” Doc asks.

I look to Nine, embarrassed. I haven’t had time all night to even ask that question.

“Francisco,” Nine says, still looking down at the dirt.

“I see,” Doc says, staring at his wife.

At this point, all adrenaline has left my body. I lean over and groan, holding my side.

Doc’s wife walks over and slowly opens the screen door, waving me in.

“Let’s get those injuries looked at. Don’t want you to die on my porch,” Doc says.

Nine attempts to wake up Francisco. She gets him just partially awake enough that she can zombie-walk him inside. Nine then pushes him toward the couch, lays him down, and curls up next to him. I limp in behind them and the doctor motions me over to the kitchen table and instructs me to lay down so he can stitch me up. After a minute or two, Nine gets up from the couch.

“Francisco is out cold. I’m just going to check on Mya,” Nine says, standing over me now.

She looks down at the stab wound and back up to my face. She reaches for my hand but the doctor, now examining me, bats her away. She gives him a dirty look.

“Do you two want to make out first or shall I close this gaping wound? It’s only three-thirty in the morning. I have all night,” the doc says, clearly irritated with us at this point. Nine flips him off behind his back. “I saw that,” he says.

Nine smacks her teeth and then turns to go check on Mya. I grin at the doctor not making eye contact with me.

He pulls his medical bag out from under the table and sets it next to me.

“She’s only mean, sometimes,” I say.

“Aren’t all women,” Doc dryly replies, as he gloves up and starts to clean my wound.

“Some more than others,” I shoot back.

“You know, son, it’s not my place, but I figure you may not have too many more chances if you keep going like this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I mean, even a cat only has nine lives,” Doc says.

“They have that reputation because of their ability to always land on their feet.”

“It’s called the ‘righting reflex’. Now take a deep breath in,” he says, as he begins to stitch me up. “And now exhale. Very good.”

I grunt through the first few pokes and pulls.

“Well, humans only have one life, but I still seem to be standing like a champ.”

“Not without assistance,” he reminds me.

The doctor pulls on the thread tightly and watches me flinch.

“Touché, Doc,” I smirk.

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