Chapter 14. Soren
The waiting room is all fluorescent misery.
Hard plastic chairs bolted together in rows.
Scuffed linoleum that was probably white once and is now a particularly miserable gray under lights bright enough to make everyone in here look ill.
The air smells like antiseptic and floor cleaner.
A TV mounted in the corner plays a muted weather segment, the meteorologist gesturing enthusiastically at a pressure system nobody in this room cares about.
Across the aisle, a toddler in a stained shirt is stacking paper cups someone gave him to keep him quiet, building a tower that collapses and gets rebuilt, collapses and gets rebuilt.
I keep one hand near Kit's elbow as we cross to the intake desk. The intake nurse is a woman in her forties with her hair pulled back tight. She looks up from her computer screen as we approach.
"Name?"
"Kit Matthews," Kit says, and the performance snaps into place. His voice goes up half a register. Picks up speed. "Well, technically Christopher, but nobody's called me that since my third-grade teacher, and she's probably dead now, so let's stick with Kit."
The nurse types without looking up.
"Date of birth?"
He rattles it off, then leans his good elbow on the counter.
"I have to say, this is a really dramatic entrance for me. Usually I at least make it to the second date before showing up covered in blood."
The corner of her mouth twitches. She's fighting it.
"Reason for visit?"
"I had a disagreement with the pavement," Kit says. "The pavement won. I'm here to file a formal complaint and possibly get stitches, in that order."
She glances at the bandage on his forearm, then at the way he's holding his left arm tight against his ribs.
"How long ago did this happen?"
"Yesterday." He's smiling. Wide and easy.
The kind of smile that sells the idea that he's completely fine, that this is all just a minor inconvenience, a funny story he'll tell at a bar next week.
"Not too bad, really. I've had worse from a bad shave.
Actually, no. It's bad. I want to be seen fast and get out of here.
Do you guys have a frequent flyer program?
Because I feel like I should be earning points. "
The nurse looks at me for the first time.
Her eyes are tired but sharp.
"Are you family?"
"Friend," I say. "I'm the one who brought him in."
She nods once.
"Insurance?"
"None," he says. His voice goes quiet for the first time.
The nurse types something.
"Emergency contact?"
There's a beat. Then Kit laughs too loudly, filling the pause before it can settle into anything. "Oh, that's depressing," he says. "Do I have to answer that? Can I put to be determined and get back to you?"
The nurse waits. I speak before Kit can deflect again.
"Put me down."
Kit's head turns. He looks at me, a quick sideways glance, his eyebrows pulling together in something that might be surprise or confusion or the beginning of an objection. His mouth opens.
"Soren Halverson," I continue, looking at the nurse instead of him.
I give her my phone number. She enters it.
Kit closes his mouth. He doesn't argue. He just stares at me for another beat, that bright, manic energy flickering like a bulb on a loose connection.
Then he turns back to the nurse and produces another smile.
"There you go," he says.
The nurse prints a wristband and wraps it around his right wrist.
"Have a seat. Someone will call you back shortly."
We move down the aisle.
His left knee starts bouncing the second his weight settles into the chair. I take the one beside him. Kit fills the silence immediately. He always does.
"You know, I was thinking," he says, "they should really redesign these chairs. They're clearly built by someone who hates the human spine. I'm pretty sure this is a war crime."
I glance at him. His knee is going like a piston, the toe of his boot tapping a rapid, uneven rhythm against the linoleum.
"You should probably stop moving that," I say, nodding toward his left arm.
"It's fine. Totally fine. I've had paper cuts worse than this."
I don't say anything. Across the room, the toddler's cup tower collapses again. His mother, slumped in her chair with her head tipped back against the wall, doesn't open her eyes. The meteorologist points at a cold front.
"You don't have to do this," Kit says suddenly.
His voice is quieter now. Stripped of the performance, just for a second.
He's looking at the floor instead of me.
"You don't have to sit here. I'm fine. You can go.
I'll get a ride or something. I know this is too boring. I can’t ask you you to stay. "
I don't answer immediately.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Kit's knee stops bouncing. Just for a second. Then it starts again, faster. "Suit yourself," he says, and the brightness returns to his voice. "But if they call my name and I have to get a shot, I'm warning you now, I'm a huge baby about needles. I will embarrass both of us."
A nurse appears in the doorway to the back, holding a tablet.
"Christopher Matthews?"
Kit is on his feet before she finishes the name. He turns and flashes that huge, weaponized grin at me. "Showtime."
I stand. I follow him.
The curtained bay is small and brightly lit, maybe six by eight feet, sectioned off from the main corridor by hanging fabric the color of hospital linens that have been washed ten thousand times.
There's an exam table with a paper cover, a rolling stool, a counter with a sink, and a monitor mounted to one wall.
"Up on the table," the nurse says, patting the paper with one gloved hand.
Kit hops up, trying to make it look easy. The effort costs him. His face tightens for half a second when his left shoulder shifts, then smooths over again. He settles onto the paper with his legs hanging off, left arm cradled against his ribs. Still smiling. The performance hasn't dropped.
The nurse takes his blood pressure, pulse, temperature.
Then she starts asking questions.
Helmet? Yes. Loss of consciousness? No. Vomiting? No. Dizziness? A little, after the crash. Neck pain? No. Chest pain? No. Numbness or tingling in the injured arm? No.
"When was your last tetanus shot?"
Kit stares at her.
"That feels like a trap."
She waits.
"Five years? Six? Maybe? No idea."
"We'll check your records if we can. If we can't confirm you're current, we'll update it."
He looks at me.
"I hate this place," he mouths.
"I know," I smile at him.
The nurse carefully removes the dressing from his forearm. The injury looks worse than it did at the shop. There is road rash along the outside of the arm, raw and angry, with one deeper laceration cutting through the abrasion.
The nurse looks at it. Then at Kit's shoulder.
"A provider will be in shortly."
"Excellent," Kit says. "Love having a team."
She leaves.
His knee starts bouncing again. A few minutes later, a nurse practitioner pulls the curtain aside and introduces herself. She examines the wound first without touching it much, then turns her attention to the shoulder.
"Tell me what happened."
"Motorcycle got tired of being upright."
Her expression doesn't change.
“Tough crowd,” he murmurs.
"Speed?"
Kit hesitates. I look at him. He looks at me.
"Fast," he answers.
"How fast?"
"Fast enough that answering accurately will make you judgmental."
"Mr. Matthews, I need to write this down," she says, with no patience.
"Over a hundred, I guess. I don’t know."
The nurse practitioner stops. Just for a beat. Then: "Okay."
She checks his neck. Collarbone. Shoulder contour. Elbow. Wrist. Hand. She asks him to move his fingers, checks sensation, pulse, grip. When she gets to the shoulder, she has him try to raise the arm himself. Kit gets barely away from his body before his face changes.
"That's enough," she says immediately.
"I can go farther."
"No."
I almost smile. Kit notices.
The nurse practitioner presses carefully around the shoulder without forcing the joint through any range of motion. Then she steps back.
"I want X-rays."
Kit sighs dramatically.
"Of course you do."
"Shoulder and upper arm. I want to rule out fracture and dislocation before we call this a soft-tissue injury."
The X-rays take less time than the waiting.
When Kit comes back, he's wearing a hospital gown over his jeans because they needed his shoulder unobstructed, his jacket and shirt folded badly in his good hand.
I take them from him without asking. He lets me.
That is becoming less surprising. He climbs back onto the exam table.
We wait another twenty minutes. He talks for eighteen of them.
The weather. The vending machine. The philosophical insult of paying three dollars for bottled water in a building where hydration is allegedly medically important.
Then the nurse practitioner returns.
"No fracture. No dislocation."
Kit points at me. "Ha!"
"I'm not finished, Mr. Matthews," the nurse sighs. She continues. "You've got a significant shoulder sprain, probably with some soft-tissue damage from the impact. I want you in a sling for comfort, limited use of that arm, and you need follow-up if the pain or range of motion isn't improving."
Kit's face has already begun rearranging itself around the words no fracture.
"So basically I'm indestructible."
"No," I say.
"Resilient?" he asks. I chuckle softly. This boy is impossible.
"Also no."
"You're lucky," the nurse says. That shuts him up.
Not for long.
"This needs a few stitches. There's debris in the deeper part of the cut, so we're going to irrigate it thoroughly first."
Kit's eyes shift to the supply tray. I watch the exact moment he realizes what that means. His good hand closes slowly over the edge of the exam table. A nurse brings in supplies while the practitioner washes her hands.
Kit sees the syringe.
His entire body goes tighter.
"Okay," he says, pointing at it with his right index finger. "Here's a thought. What if we skip the whole needle situation entirely and use superglue? I've seen it done. Very effective. Minimal scarring. I'll sign a waiver."
"We're not gluing this," the nurse practitioner says, and I feel it takes a lot for her to even give him an answer.
"Duct tape?" he tries again. "I'm not picky. I've fixed a lot of things with duct tape. Exhaust pipes, fairings, emotional trauma—"
"Mr. Matthews," the nurse says. "I need you to hold still."
The irrigation starts. Saline runs hard through the deeper laceration and across the road rash. Kit sucks in a breath through his teeth. Sharp. His shoulders pull tight.
"Okay," he says, voice strained. "That's... yeah. That's unpleasant."
The practitioner continues flushing debris from the wound. Kit's jokes speed up.
"And I like pain. Voluntarily. Usually with better ambiance. Have you ever considered a career in something less stabby? Customer service? Pottery? Floristry seems peaceful."
His breathing has gone shallow.
I take the stool beside the exam table.
The practitioner picks up the anesthetic.
"This part is going to sting. The anesthetic burns going in, then I'll give it a couple of minutes before I test the area."
Kit stares at the syringe.
"See, that's honest. I appreciate that. We're building trust."
The needle goes in near the edge of the laceration.
Kit flinches sharply inward.
His good hand locks around the table. His breathing gets faster. The jokes stop halfway through the third.
I extend my hand.
I rest it palm-up on the table between us. Kit looks at it. Just looks. For one second. Then his fingers move. They slide across my palm and curl down. Grip. He's holding on. I close my hand around his. My fingers fold over the back of his hand.
The final injection goes in. Kit's fingers clamp harder around mine.
"Done with the anesthetic," the practitioner says. "Give it a minute."
Kit exhales through his nose. His hand stays where it is. Mine does too. The practitioner cleans the area again, prepares the sterile field, then tests along the edge of the wound.
"Sharp or pressure?" she asks.
"Pressure," he says, and he looks much paler than usual.
"Here?"
"Pressure."
"And here?"
Kit waits.
"Nothing, really."
"Good," she says and opens the suture kit. The curved needle appears. Kit sees it. His grip tightens again anyway.
"Starting the sutures now," she says. "You should feel pulling and pressure. Tell me immediately if anything is sharp."
Kit nods. The first stitch goes in. I don't look at the wound. I keep my eyes on his face. He watches the curtain. His jaw is tight. The thread pulls through. His fingers tense in mine.
"You're doing so well," I say quietly. Only for him. His eyes move to me. Surprise, quick and naked. Then something in his face softens. He doesn't respond. The jokes are gone. His breathing is still too fast, but he is listening. So I keep going. "You're being so brave."
His shoulders lower a fraction.
"Good boy."
There. His entire body seems to hear it. His eyes leave the tray entirely. I move my thumb slowly across the back of his hand.
"Good, brave little boy."
His breathing catches. Then releases. The practitioner continues. Kit's hand stays locked in mine.
"You're being so good," I murmur. "Just a little bit more." Another stitch. He doesn't look at it. "I know you can hang on."
His fingers tighten.
"That's it. Very good." Another pull. Another knot. "So, so good."
Just Kit. Holding my hand. Letting somebody tell him he's doing enough.
The practitioner ties off the final stitch.
"All done."
Kit blinks like he's surprised.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
She cleans around the repair, applies a fresh dressing, and wraps the forearm securely.
"Keep the dressing clean and dry for the first twenty-four hours. After that, you can wash gently, but no soaking or submerging the arm until the wound is healed. Come back in about ten days for suture removal."
Kit nods.
"You'll also need the sling for the shoulder.
Use it for comfort, but follow the discharge instructions about movement.
If the pain gets significantly worse, you develop numbness or weakness, swelling increases, the hand changes color, or you get fever, drainage, or spreading redness around the wound, come back. "
"Understood."
"If your tetanus record isn't current, we'll update that before you leave."
Kit closes his eyes.
"Of course you will."
The practitioner almost smiles and then she steps out. A nurse returns a few minutes later with the sling, fits it carefully around Kit's injured arm, and goes over the instructions again.
Then we're alone. The curtain falls shut behind her.
Kit looks down. At our hands. His fingers are still locked around mine.
His grip is still firm. I can see the moment he registers it.
The realization that he's been holding on this entire time.
That the procedure is over. That there is nothing forcing him to keep doing it.
His eyes lift to mine. I wait. He doesn't pull away.
Instead, his thumb moves once against the side of my hand.
Then he smiles at me.