Read Striking Out for Free Online Page B

editor chuckling.
    “With pleasure,” he said.
    I slammed down the phone. Prune-face looked at me, astonished, then laughed. I joined her.
    “When will I learn to speak my mind?” I asked.

Chapter 10
    I went back down the ICU hallway to Andy’s room, catching heart-wrenching glimpses of suffering through doors that were ajar: a red-eyed elderly man stroking his wife’s forehead; a woman weeping in her husband’s arms while a priest in full clerical fig stood over a child on a stretcher, praying softly.
    When I got to the room, nothing had changed. Stuff was still draining in and out of him and the machines were still beeping, humming, and gurgling. Flanagan was asleep in his chair in the hall. Drooling, with his hands folded between his fat thighs.
    “You haven’t missed a thing.” Aletta said, reassurance in her broad brown face. “All his signs are strong. And I brought you a blanket. You look like you could use one.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “I’m freezing.”
    I took the thin blanket and wrapped it around me like a shawl.
    “I hate that gagging noise he’s making,” I said. “Can’t you take that thing out of his throat?”
    “Honey, his lungs are in no shape to do it on their own right now,” she explained. “Maybe by morning.”
    “Will he be able to talk?”
    “Not with that in. But believe me, he’s not going to be in the mood for any conversation when he wakes up.”
    “When do you think that will be?”
    “Could be any time now.”
    She looked at her watch.
    “Speaking of time, I’m on break. Can I bring you back a coffee?”
    “I guess another one can’t hurt.”
    “How do you take it?”
    I told her, then settled into the awful chair again. Warmed by the blanket, I had almost dozed off when Aletta came back with my coffee. I thanked her, and pulled off the lid. Taking my first experimental sip, I glanced at Andy. His eyes were open. Half the coffee ended up on my arm. I put the cup down and went to him.
    I stood next to the bed and took his hand. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry rasping.
    “Don’t try to talk,” I whispered. “You’ve got a tube in your throat to help you breathe.”
    I squeezed his hand.
    “You’re in the hospital. You remember getting shot?”
    He shook his head and grimaced.
    “Do you know who I am?” I asked.
    He blinked.
    “One means yes?”
    He blinked twice, which confused me, until I saw the twinkle in his eye.
    “Lame jokes are probably a good sign,” I said, fighting tears.
    His eyes looked questions at me.
    “You were interviewing a suspect, and he shot you. They operated on you this afternoon. You’re going to be fine.”
    He rolled his eyes at all the equipment.
    “You’re in Intensive Care, but it’s just a precaution. Go back to sleep. I’m glad to have you back.”
    I squeezed his hand again. He tried to sit up, then winced, whimpered, and settled back. I kissed him on the forehead, avoiding the tubes.
    “Rest now,” I said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
    He blinked his eyes. Yes. Then closed them for a few more seconds. When they opened again, a crack, there was no one home.
    I spent the night, in the end. Aletta brought me a couple of pillows to cushion the wooden armrests. Andy woke up a few times. Sometimes he recognized me, sometimes not. He looked terrible, shrunken and confused. I didn’t know how to turn him back into the real Andy.
    His mother arrived at 8:30, with her husband, full of bustle and concern. They had left home at dawn. I filled them in on Andy and on Bob Flanagan, who was snoring in an empty room, then handed off to them gratefully, and went home for some sleep.
    I knocked on Sally’s door to report. She and T.C. were having their traditional Sunday morning pancakes, but I pleaded exhaustion and promised to come back for supper. Picking up the
Planet
in the hall, I stumbled up the stairs.
    Andy’s shooting and the death of his attacker were front page news, with photos of the house in