Chapter 42
Randy
We watch his dad leave the small hospital room, the three of us staring down at Walsh as he lies on the hospital bed. Every few minutes, I catch Coach pacing past the door, phone pressed to his ear, talking to the Raptors medical staff.
“Don’t start,” Walsh says, clearly reading our minds. His hand is tethered to an IV, and he shuffles upright, wincing.
Now that all the blood’s been washed away, the damage is clear. His busted lip, the gap where a tooth used to be, and his left eye is swollen shut. The swelling is massive, filled with blood and fluid, colored black and purple.
“Why aren’t you reporting this?” Christian asks, raking his fingers through his hair. He’s frustrated. Always the protector, law abider, captain, leader, friend. He doesn’t want the culprits getting away with this.
“It’s my decision,” Walsh replies, voice firm.
“It’s the wrong decision,” Seth says, his voice cut and deep.
“Well, for now, I just need you to accept it.”
“Do we know them? Hell, do you know them? I’m guessing there was more than one,” I ask.
“No, I don’t know them. And even if I did report it, I doubt the police could do much. So can we please just drop it?”
“We just want to understand,” Christian says.
Walsh doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the ceiling as if thinking about his next words. “I was walking back from the store. It was late and I didn’t see them coming.”
“How many?” Christian asks, voice clipped.
“Three. Maybe four. I don’t know. It was fast, frantic, and it’s over. So let’s drop it.”
I sigh, and I know Christian and Seth feel the same. But we let it go.
“We’ll support whatever you want,” Seth says.
“I appreciate that, man. I really do. But right now I just want to get out of this bed, fly back to Utah with Dad, and rest up while I help him around the farm.”
“That doesn’t sound like taking it easy,” I say.
“Still. It’s what I want.”
The doctor enters, chart in hand, followed by Mr. Walsh clutching a cup of vending machine coffee that smells like burned cardboard.
“Well, your eye socket’s fractured,” the doctor says, pointing at Walsh with a sleek silver pen.
“But luckily, there’s no internal bleeding.
Your ribs are bruised, not broken, and you’ll need to see a dentist soon.
You’re young and fit, so I see no reason you can’t go home tomorrow, as long as you take it easy. ”
“Is he okay to fly?” his dad asks from beside me.
The doctor nods. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”
“I’ll take him home. He can rest on the farm for a few days. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“That sounds like a good plan. Farm air will do him good. Just go easy—too much manual labor and those ribs will make you pay.”
Walsh nods. “Yes, sir.”