the
doctor had been right about the swelling getting worse before it
got better. Now, the skin on the sole of his foot was stretched so
tightly it felt like the whole appendage was about to burst. The
only positive thing was that his shoulder was staring to feel
better—at least the pain killers seemed to work on that part of his
body.
He had worn a pair of old, faded sneakers to
work, the only shoes that were halfway bearable to wear under the
circumstances. This had allowed him to hide his injury from the
Snells, though just barely.
Neal glanced at the office building again,
dreading the seemingly vast distance that separated him from the
lobby. He started to open the door, then shut it again. No, he had
to rest for another couple of minutes. He decided to take another
look at his foot.
He grunted and carefully removed his right
sneaker, then slipped off his sock. The top of his foot looked a
bit red to him, particularly around the bandage. It also felt “hot
to the touch,” as the doctor had said.
He pulled up the bottom of his pants and
inspected his ankle and calf, but he didn’t see any red streaks.
Yet, his instincts told him that his foot was well into the process
of becoming infected. But how could he know for sure? It seemed to
him that it might be hot and red just from walking around on it all
morning. Plus, didn’t it take longer to get an infection?
Neal wished he had asked the doctor how long
it would take for the symptoms to appear. Then again, he would have
sounded like a hypochondriac. But hadn’t the doctor said that it
was “likely” that an infection would develop? Well, no, he didn’t
say “likely.” He said there was a “chance” that an infection could
devel—
“Hey, pal,” somebody said, tapping on his
window.
It was a heavyset black man with a mustache.
A security guard.
Neal rolled down the window.
“You’re gonna have to move. This is a fire
zone. No parking or standing.”
“I have to make a delivery.” Neal realized
that the man was staring at his foot, which he had propped up on
the lower part of the dashboard. He quickly moved it down to the
gas pedal.
“What happened?” the guard asked.
“Nothing,” Neal said. “Just sprained my foot
a little bit yesterday. Playing tennis.”
“Looks pretty bad.”
Neal just shrugged. He hoped the guy would
just leave him alone.
“If you’re gonna make a delivery,” the guard
said, “then get on with it. The police will give you a ticket if
they see you parked here.”
Neal nodded.
The guard eyed Neal for another couple of
seconds, then walked off.
Neal watched him, wondering how the truth—or
what he perceived to be the truth—would have sounded.
What happened to your foot?
Oh, my five-month old daughter set a trap
for me and screwed me up pretty good.
A trap? What the hell are you talking
about?
Well, she’s pissed off because I almost made
my wife abort her, and now she’s trying to get even. She’s pretty
advanced, too, for a five-month old kid. She can already talk, move
things around the room. And she’s shrewd as hell. Left a broken
tennis trophy of mine out in the middle of the floor, so I’d step
on it when I got up to go to the bathroom. Smeared her own feces
all over it, too, just to make sure an infection would develop.
Uh-huh
, the guard would say, glancing
around, wondering if a real policeman was around to take this nut
away and lock him up somewhere, in some nice, quiet place with
soft, padded walls...
Neal closed his eyes and let out a ragged
sigh. Maybe this infection (if he indeed had an infection) was a
good thing—it would keep his mind occupied and off the unpleasant
subject of how it had come about. The rational part of himself
simply could not accept the thoughts he was having about
Natasha—they were obviously the thoughts of a lunatic. Hell, maybe
Annie was right. Maybe it was just some kind of out-of-control
guilt complex that had taken over. Maybe he had completely
doctor had been right about the swelling getting worse before it
got better. Now, the skin on the sole of his foot was stretched so
tightly it felt like the whole appendage was about to burst. The
only positive thing was that his shoulder was staring to feel
better—at least the pain killers seemed to work on that part of his
body.
He had worn a pair of old, faded sneakers to
work, the only shoes that were halfway bearable to wear under the
circumstances. This had allowed him to hide his injury from the
Snells, though just barely.
Neal glanced at the office building again,
dreading the seemingly vast distance that separated him from the
lobby. He started to open the door, then shut it again. No, he had
to rest for another couple of minutes. He decided to take another
look at his foot.
He grunted and carefully removed his right
sneaker, then slipped off his sock. The top of his foot looked a
bit red to him, particularly around the bandage. It also felt “hot
to the touch,” as the doctor had said.
He pulled up the bottom of his pants and
inspected his ankle and calf, but he didn’t see any red streaks.
Yet, his instincts told him that his foot was well into the process
of becoming infected. But how could he know for sure? It seemed to
him that it might be hot and red just from walking around on it all
morning. Plus, didn’t it take longer to get an infection?
Neal wished he had asked the doctor how long
it would take for the symptoms to appear. Then again, he would have
sounded like a hypochondriac. But hadn’t the doctor said that it
was “likely” that an infection would develop? Well, no, he didn’t
say “likely.” He said there was a “chance” that an infection could
devel—
“Hey, pal,” somebody said, tapping on his
window.
It was a heavyset black man with a mustache.
A security guard.
Neal rolled down the window.
“You’re gonna have to move. This is a fire
zone. No parking or standing.”
“I have to make a delivery.” Neal realized
that the man was staring at his foot, which he had propped up on
the lower part of the dashboard. He quickly moved it down to the
gas pedal.
“What happened?” the guard asked.
“Nothing,” Neal said. “Just sprained my foot
a little bit yesterday. Playing tennis.”
“Looks pretty bad.”
Neal just shrugged. He hoped the guy would
just leave him alone.
“If you’re gonna make a delivery,” the guard
said, “then get on with it. The police will give you a ticket if
they see you parked here.”
Neal nodded.
The guard eyed Neal for another couple of
seconds, then walked off.
Neal watched him, wondering how the truth—or
what he perceived to be the truth—would have sounded.
What happened to your foot?
Oh, my five-month old daughter set a trap
for me and screwed me up pretty good.
A trap? What the hell are you talking
about?
Well, she’s pissed off because I almost made
my wife abort her, and now she’s trying to get even. She’s pretty
advanced, too, for a five-month old kid. She can already talk, move
things around the room. And she’s shrewd as hell. Left a broken
tennis trophy of mine out in the middle of the floor, so I’d step
on it when I got up to go to the bathroom. Smeared her own feces
all over it, too, just to make sure an infection would develop.
Uh-huh
, the guard would say, glancing
around, wondering if a real policeman was around to take this nut
away and lock him up somewhere, in some nice, quiet place with
soft, padded walls...
Neal closed his eyes and let out a ragged
sigh. Maybe this infection (if he indeed had an infection) was a
good thing—it would keep his mind occupied and off the unpleasant
subject of how it had come about. The rational part of himself
simply could not accept the thoughts he was having about
Natasha—they were obviously the thoughts of a lunatic. Hell, maybe
Annie was right. Maybe it was just some kind of out-of-control
guilt complex that had taken over. Maybe he had completely
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