Hidden Moon

9

The next day I stayed home and tried to sleep. The doctor at the morgue had given me four pain pills. “It’s all I have,” she said. “Cut them in half, in quarters if you can. Take as little as you need so they’ll last. It’s not dislocated, nothing’s broken, though they could have shattered the collarbone or severed a nerve. It could have crippled you for life. It’s bad enough that the bruise is so deep. You’ll be in pain for a week, at least a week.” She helped me back into my shirt. “Good thing you’re right-handed.”

“They knew it.”

“Oh.” She considered this. “Well, that’s something, I suppose.” Her voice faltered, and then she snapped it back where it belonged. “Sleep as much as you can. Don’t move your shoulder around for a couple of days, then try to flex so it doesn’t get stiff. If you can put some heat on it, that would be good. Maybe heat up a brick and wrap it in cloth, anything like that. When you’re taking these pills, don’t drink any alcohol. Not a drop. Come back in a week. And try to keep moving your fingers.” She walked me to the door. “Do you have anyone who can help out for the next few days? Maybe cook a meal, or help you wash?”

“No. I can manage.”

“I doubt it, but we’ll see.”

“Thanks. I was never here.”

“No, you weren’t.” She gave me a half smile. “Maybe none of us are.”