“I’m all right,” Matt said.
Why the hell did I say that?
“They’ll take care of you in a minute.”
“Why not now?”
“Because the guy you shot is in a lot worse shape than you are,” Wohl said matter-of-factly.
“Is he going to live?”
“I don’t think they know yet.”
“Shit, my car!”
“What about your car?”
“It’s in the playground. With the keys in it.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Wohl said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I think I’m going to be sick to my stomach.”
All of a sudden, Matt found himself looking at Peter Wohl’s stomach.
He must have had to squat to get down to me.
“Get me a towel or a bucket or something,” Wohl ordered.
Matt rolled on his side, and then completely over, onto his back.
That’s better. Now I won’t have to throw up.
He propped himself up on his elbows, and then the nausea came so quickly he barely had time to get his head over the edge of the gurney.
He now felt faint, and his leg began to throb.
The gurney began to move. He looked up and back and saw that he was being towed by a very tall, six feet six or better, very thin black man in hospital greens.
He was pulled into a cubicle walled by white plastic curtains.
A new face appeared in his. Another black one.
“I’m Dr. Hampton. How you doing?”
“Just fine, thank you.”
Dr. Hampton removed the handkerchief, jerking it quickly off, and painfully prodded Matt’s forehead.
“Nothing serious,” he said. “It will have to be sutured, but that can wait.”
“What about my leg?”
“I’ll have a look,” Dr. Hampton said, and then ordered: “Get an IV in him.”
Somebody got him into a sitting position and he felt his topcoat and jacket being removed, and then his shirt.
“I’m cold.”