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magicians.”
    D.R. panicked. “Am I going to lose my foot, my leg? Is that
what you’re telling me? What, damn it?”
    Millhouse walked over, closed the door completely, and
returned to the foot of D.R.’s bed. He gave him a hard look. “I want you to
keep your mouth shut until I finish giving you my professional opinions, and
then I’ll listen to all of your concerns and questions. No more outbursts.”
    D.R. sulked.
    “In consultation with the orthopedic specialists, they’re
willing to commit that you could lose anywhere from a half-inch to an inch in
length of your right leg. It may be less than that, but that’s a framework to
be thinking about.”
    He broke silence. “That’s not going to work for me. I will
not be a limper, a damn gimp. You’ll have to fix it or I’ll get someone who can
fix my ankle.”
    Stillwell studied him for a moment. “Okay, I’ll go prepare a
legal form releasing you from my care, and you’ll be free to find another
doctor.” He headed for the door.
    D.R. blurted, “No. No. Don’t. Don’t leave.”
    The doctor had called his bluff.
    D.R. sighed heavily. “I don’t want another doctor.” He sunk
into the lumpy hospital bed, defeated as he looked at his right leg and foot in
a cast and sling throbbing with pain.
    Stillwell stood by the bed again, taking a couple of deep
breaths as he framed what he was about to say. “You can get through this, but
you have to stop fighting against everyone. Your dad killed himself with
alcohol. His liver turned to stone at 42. Your mother was the town whore; HIV
sweeping her health away at the young age of 39.” He shook his head slightly.
“There’s not a pleasant way to say these things, sorry.”
    D.R. had heard all of this before, and remembered it well,
and the loneliness he’d felt losing both parents within three years, while
still a teenager. His grandmother, Edna Fallington, had stepped in, along with
a piece-meal network of nanny’s to get him through high school and on the
doorstep of college. His older brother, Rodney, was still in college after
changing his major for the third time.
     Stillwell continued. “Both your parents were obstinate;
don’t follow in their footsteps. Learn from their mistakes. Learn about, and
from life. There’s more to your life than the small limitation of your ankle.
Some people don’t have any arms or legs.” He paused. “There’s plenty of time to
think about all the options. I’ll keep day to day watch on your progress and
the positive things we can do.”
    D.R. closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about options.
He’d never had to think about options. What the hell is that supposed to mean, he
thought.
    Stillwell left the room to check on other patients.
     
    Stillwell breezed by the girl in the wheelchair parked a few
feet from D.R.’s room. She slowly lifted her head, eyes following the doctor,
and then she glanced back at the closed door. While in the hall she’d picked up
most of the conversation between the doctor and D.R.
    She wheeled on down the hall to a corner sunroom that was
rarely used by patients or visitors. But she liked the cozy room and was
thankful for each new day she greeted there, as the sun painted the morning
sky. She parked her wheelchair, pulled the Asheville Citizen-Times from
her worn canvas messenger bag. She loved reading about the local scene.
    There was another detailed article regarding the wreck
victim five doors down from her hospital room. This article focused more on the
past shenanigans of D.R. Fallington than his injuries from the wreck, but she’d
already read and clipped those news accounts.
    After finishing with the newspaper, with a small pair of scissors
she clipped a couple articles and filed them in a red folder, then wheeled over
and trashed the rest of the paper in the waste can.
    She pulled from her bag a spiral notebook and pen, flipped a
few pages and scribbled a few notes. She paused, looking through the bank of
windows at