“I forgot about those. Thanks for reminding me.”
“You were fortunate to be wearing a Kevlar vest.”
“Be prepared—I learned that in the Boy Scouts.”
“Somehow I find it hard to believe that you were ever a Boy Scout.”
“Truth be told, I wasn’t. They tossed me out. Said I had a problem with authority.”
“What else do you remember?”
“About the Scouts?”
“McKenzie…”
“I remember hearing the sirens while I was lying in the parking lot. Then there’s a gap. Then I remember the paramedics were putting a collar around my neck and sliding me onto a backboard and loading me into the ambulance. The rest is all bits and pieces—the ride to the hospital, the ER, a CAT scan—how did that go, by the way?”
“It was negative. No bleeding whatsoever.”
“That’s good.”
The doctor shrugged.
“Isn’t it?” I asked.
“A head injury and resultant cognitive impact is not readily measured by any blood test or X-ray.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that people with a normal CT can still have significant issues.”
“What kind of issues?”
“Severe headaches, nausea, problems with concentration, with balance, blurred vision, ringing in the ears.”
“I’ve had concussions before.”
“I know you have. What you need to know is that the more concussions you have, the more susceptible to concussions you become and the more persistent the symptoms you will experience. Being in motel rooms that blow up—not a wise choice for you, McKenzie.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I said. And moved my shoulder. And felt the pain. “Oh, God. Shouldn’t you be giving me morphine or something?”
“The trouble with pain medicines is that they can mask symptoms that we need to be aware of.”
“How ’bout aspirin? How ’bout ibuprofen? How ’bout you just hit me over the head with a two-by-four and get it over with?”
“I’ll get you some Tylenol for your headache. You do have a headache, don’t you?”
“You’ve read my mind.”
“Afterward, I want you to try to get some sleep.”
“So you can wake me up in a couple of hours and do this all over again?”
“It’s important that you can be roused to normal consciousness.”
“You call this normal?”
The doctor set my hand back on the bed and gave it a gentle pat. “I’ll see you soon,” she said.
Bright sunlight flooded the hospital room. I was sitting up in bed, my back against the headboard. Lieutenant Rask stood at my side. His eyes were tired, his clothes were rumpled, and his face was in need of a shave. I doubted he’d had a moment of sleep since I was blown up—was it only twenty-four hours ago? It seemed so much longer. Mr. Donatucci was standing next to the window staring out at God knew what. He looked the same as he always did. I had spoken to both of them earlier, giving them bits and pieces of information. Now they were back for more.
The doctor was leaning against the door, her hands behind her back, monitoring the interrogation.
“How did you get out of the motel room, McKenzie?” Rask asked.
“I don’t remember.”
I winced as I turned my head toward him. It’s impossible to put a cast on a broken collarbone. Instead, the doctor put me in a shoulder immobilizer—a wide elastic belt that wrapped around my chest. An elastic cuff went over my upper arm, another went around my forearm, and both cuffs were firmly pinned to the belt so that I was unable to move either. The immobilizer supported the weight of my arm, keeping it from pulling the fracture out of alignment. It also limited shoulder rotation. All this was supposed to allow the bone to heal itself within six to eight weeks. Unfortunately, it didn’t do anything for the pain, which I was assured would remain my constant companion for at least three weeks. I was offered Vicodin and Percocet, but both made me nauseous, so I settled for Tylenol and ibuprofen. Neither seemed particularly helpful.
“We found you in the parking lot outside the room,” Rask said. “How did you get there?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You weren’t blown out of the room. The blast was too powerful. You would have been shredded like the bed, like the windows, like everything else.”
“Was the bomb in the room?” I asked.
“No. It was a shape charge attached to the ceiling of the room beneath you and detonated by remote control.”
“The artnappers set it.”
“Obviously. What isn’t obvious is how you got out alive.”
“I don’t remember.”
“McKenzie, when we found you, when the paramedics were treating you, glass, plaster from the walls, other debris, it was under your body. You collapsed on top of the debris after the bomb went off.”
I kept looking Rask in the eye because it seemed important that I do so regardless of the pain it caused me.
“I don’t know what to tell you, LT,” I said.
