Page 85 of Reading Between the Lines
“You probably have broken bones.”
He growled in response, teeth gnashing, and I wasn’t about to reprimand him for his incommunicado response. He’d been vacillating between spitting profanities and moaning like awounded animal. A large animal. A dying grizzly bear, to be precise. He deserved grace.
I removed his boots, fearing his pain would shoot to a level that he might kick me by accident. I didn’t think they were steel toe, but I wasn’t taking chances. The coat came off before I got him on the bed, and it was a song and dance, considering it required him to move his arm in a way that hurt him more. I didn’t argue about leaving the T-shirt in place, but I shucked his jeans for comfort, tossing them on his travel bag.
“Can I look at it?” I asked, kneeling beside him, wondering what the fuck was taking Ivory’s husband so long. The man was likely zombie-walking to the store, arms outstretched and groaning like they did onThe Walking Dead. At this rate, it would take forever.
Every exhale came out of Diem with a rumbly growl, but he removed his hand from his shoulder and let me examine him. An ugly dark bruise had already bloomed to life, and swelling had set in. “Can you move your arm?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
“No. It fucking hurts.”
“Show me, Diem, or I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Tallus—”
“Do not fight with me. Move the arm, or I’m calling 911.”
He lifted the injured arm from where he’d tucked it against his chest. It trembled, but he maneuvered it slowly, proving the joint wasn’t compromised. The action caused him to lose a few shades of color, and tiny beads of sweat popped out across his forehead.
“Wiggle your fingers.”
He bared his teeth instead and showed me the middle one, which was technically dexterity and demonstration enough.
A knock sounded at the door. I sprung from the bed and met the corpse of an old man who had come bearing gifts of ice packsand painkillers. Tucked under Herbert’s arm was an unopened bottle of whiskey.
“We don’t need that.” I pointed at the bottle.
“I heard him mention wanting alcohol,” the dead man said in his monotone voice. “In the war, we used alcohol to bandage the worst of the pain.”
“You weren’t in the war.”
The corpse blinked. “I could have been.”
“You probably weren’t born until it was over. Stop lying.”
“He wanted the alcohol.”
“He doesn’t need it.”
“Yes, I fucking do, Tallus,” Diem snarled from the bed. “Bring that fucking bottle over here, or so help me god, I will show you how well I can move my arm.”
I darted a glance over my shoulder. “Diem whatever-your-middle-name-is Krause, you can be in all the pain you want, but you do not get to threaten me, or I will find whoever did this and ask them to drop another goddamn tree on your head. Got it? Now shove a sock in it.”
I took the bottle from Ivory’s husband, muttering, “Fuck it. He’s cranky. Trees are falling from the sky, and a rabid Toto haunts the woods. I can hardly blame him for wanting a drink. I want a fucking drink at this point too.”
“When I was in the war—”
“You weren’t in the goddamn war, Herbert. It would make you over a hundred, and you’re not over a hundred.”
“I have to polish the silver now.”
“Good. Go. Thank you for this.”
I slammed the door as Diem spat, “He could have been in the Korean war, or, if he joined at seventeen like most idiot teens, he could have been in World War II. It would make him ninety-seven, not over a hundred.”
