“I’m wondering if we should take you to the hospital.”
“Over my dead body,” Charlie said.
“That’s the whole question,” I said.
“I hate hospitals,” Charlie said.
“That’s not relevant,” I said.
“It looks worse than it is.”
So I googled “How to know when to take someone to the hospital after a bar fight” and discovered that many of the symptoms for a worrying head injury are the same as just being stupidly drunk.
“I’m not going, anyway,” Charlie said. “This is gratuitous googling.”
“I’ll decide if you’re going,” I said, busting out my in-charge voice.
“I’ll do that thing where protestors lie down on the road—and then you’ll have to drag my two-hundred-pound ass the whole way.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Yeah, good luck.”
I’d dragged my dad many places for many reasons. “I’m stronger than I look.”
“Actually,” Charlie said, his voice softening, “I believe that.”
BY THE TIMEI was done cleaning up his face, Charlie looked a lot better. He had a cut on his swollen eye where the other guy’s fist had popped the skin. I leaned in close to peer at it. “You should get stitches for this.”
“Nope.”
“It might leave a scar.”
“There are no words for how much I don’t care.”
I sighed. And then I just kind of gave up. Yes, I’d helped my dad many times—but my dad hadwantedme to help him. It was one thing to drag an incapacitated man to the hospital. It was quite another to drag an unwilling one.
“Drink,” I urged, filling Charlie’s water glass.
To my relief, he did—big, sloppy gulps that sloshed out and ran down his neck.
I found some Neosporin and a Band-Aid. Then, while I took my time applying both, I asked, “What was that phone call, Charlie?”
When Charlie didn’t respond, I prompted: “Earlier today? The phone call?”
Charlie shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”
“You can, though. You really can.”
But he shook his head again. “That’s need-to-know info.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll ruin your life.”
“It’llruin my life?” Just how drunk was this guy?
“Or maybe it’smylife it’ll ruin. But you won’t be too pleased about it, either.”