Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

"I'm going to go check on Roy now," she told them. "In the meantime, you two might want to polish up your story."

"How's he doing, anyway?" Beatrice asked.

"Better. He got a tetanus shot, and now we're loading him with antibiotics and pain medication. It's strong stuff, so he's pretty sleepy."

"Can we see him?"

"Not right now."

As soon as the doctor had gone, Roy and Beatrice hurried outside, where it was safer to talk. Roy sat down on the steps of the emergency room; Beatrice remained standing.

"This isn't gonna work, cowgirl. Once they figure out he's not you…"

"It's a problem," Roy agreed: the understatement of the year.

"And if Lonna hears about this, you know he'll end up in juvie detention," Beatrice said gloomily, "until she finds a new military school. Probably someplace far-off, like Guam, where he can't run away."

Roy didn't understand how a mother could kick her own child out of her life, but he knew such tragic things occurred. He'd heard of fathers who acted the same way. It was depressing to think about.

"We'll come up with something," he promised Beatrice.

"Know what, Tex? You're okay." She pinched his cheek and went bounding down the steps.

"Hey, where you going?" he called after her.

"Fix dinner for my dad. I do it every night."

"You're kidding, right? You're not really leaving me here alone."

"Sorry," Beatrice said. "Dad'll freak if I don't show up. He can't make toast without burning off his fingertips."

"Couldn't Lonna cook his dinner this one time?"

"Nope. She tends bar at the Elk's Lodge." Beatrice gave Roy a brisk little wave. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't let 'em operate or nuthin' on my brother."

"Wait!" Roy jumped to his feet. "Tell me his real name. It's the least you can do, after everything that's happened."

"Sorry, cowgirl, but I can't. I made him a blood promise a long time ago."

"Please?"

"If he wants you to know," Beatrice said, "he'll tell you himself." Then she ran off, her footsteps fading into the night.

Roy trudged back into the emergency room. He knew his mother would be getting worried, so he asked the desk clerk if he could borrow the phone. It rang a half dozen times on the other end before the Eberhardts' answering machine picked up. Roy left a message saying he'd be home as soon as he and Beatrice finished cleaning up the mess from the science project.

Alone in the waiting area, Roy dug through a stack of magazines until he found an issue of Outdoor Life that had an article about fishing for cutthroat trout in the Rocky Mountains. The best thing about the story was the photographs-anglers wading knee-deep in blue Western rivers lined with tall cottonwoods, rows of snowy mountain crags visible in the distance.

Roy was feeling pretty homesick for Montana when he heard the approach of a siren outside. He decided it was an excellent time to go find a Coke machine, even though he only had two dimes in his pocket.

The truth was, Roy didn't want to be in the emergency room to see what the siren was all about. He wasn't prepared to see them wheel in somebody who'd been injured in a serious wreck, somebody who might even be dying.

Other kids could be really curious about that gory stuff, but not Roy. Once, when he was seven years old and his family lived near Milwaukee, a drunken hunter drove a snowmobile full-speed into an old birch tree. The accident happened only a hundred yards from a slope where Roy and his father were sledding.

Mr. Eberhardt had run up the hill to try to help, with Roy huffing close behind. When they'd reached the tree, they realized there was nothing they could do. The dead man was soaked with blood and twisted at odd angles, like a broken G.I. Joe doll. Roy knew he would never forget what he saw, and he never wanted to see anything like it again.

Consequently, he had no intention of hanging around the emergency room for the arrival of a new emergency. He slipped through a side door and wandered through the hospital for about fifteen minutes until a nurse intercepted him.

"I think I'm lost," Roy said, doing his best to appear confused.

"You most definitely are."

The nurse steered him down a back corridor to the emergency room, where Roy was relieved to find no chaos or carnage. The place was as quiet as he'd left it.

Puzzled, Roy went to the window and checked outside. There was no ambulance in the delivery zone, only a Coconut Cove police cruiser. Maybe it was nothing, he thought, and returned to his magazine.

Soon afterward, Roy heard voices from behind the double doors that led to the area where Mullet Fingers was being treated. A loud discussion was taking place in the patient ward, and Roy strained to make out what was being said.

One voice in particular rose above the rest, and Roy was distressed to recognize it. He sat there in nervous misery, trying to decide what to do next. Then he heard another familiar voice, and he knew there was only one choice.

He walked to the double doors and pushed them open.

"Hey, Mom! Dad!" he shouted. "I'm right here!"

Officer Delinko had insisted on giving the Eberhardts a ride to the hospital. It was the decent thing to do-and also a prime opportunity to score points with Roy's father.

The patrolman hoped that Mr. Eberhardt's son wasn't involved in the continuing mischief at the pancake-house construction site. What a sticky situation that would be!

On the drive to the hospital, Roy's parents sat in the backseat and spoke quietly between themselves. His mother said she couldn't imagine how Roy had got bitten by a dog while he was working on a science project. "Maybe it had something to do with all that hamburger meat," she speculated.

"Hamburger?" said Roy's father. "What kind of school project uses hamburger?"

In the rearview mirror, Officer Delinko could see Mr. Eberhardt put an arm around his wife's shoulders. Her eyes were moist and she was biting her lower lip. Mr. Eberhardt appeared as tightly wound as a clock spring.

When they got to the emergency room, the desk clerk declared that Roy was sleeping and couldn't be disturbed. The Eberhardts tried to reason with him but the clerk wouldn't budge.

"We're his parents," Mr. Eberhardt said evenly, "and we intend to see him right away."

"Sir, don't make me call a supervisor."

"I don't care if you call the Wizard of Oz," said Mr. Eberhardt. "We're going in."

The clerk trailed them through the swinging double doors. "You can't do this!" he objected, scooting ahead of the Eberhardts and blocking the hallway to the patient ward.

Officer Delinko edged forward, assuming that the sight of a police uniform would soften the fellow's attitude. He was mistaken.

"Absolutely no visitors. It says right here on the doctor's notes." The clerk solemnly waved a clipboard. "I'm afraid you'll have to go back to the waiting room. That means you, too, Officer."

Officer Delinko shrank away. Not the Eberhardts.

"Listen, that's our son lying in there," Roy's mother reminded the clerk. "You called us, remember? You told us to come!"

"Yes, and you may see Roy as soon as the doctor says it's allowed."

"Then page the doctor. Now." Mr. Eberhardt's tone of voice remained level, but the volume had gotten much louder. "Pick up the phone and dial. If you've forgotten how, we'll be happy to show you."

"The doctor's on a break. She'll be back in twenty-five minutes," the clerk said tersely.

"Then she can find us right here," Mr. Eberhardt said, "visiting our injured son. Now, if you don't move out of the way, I'm going to drop-kick you all the way to Chokoloskee. Understand?"

The clerk went pale. "I'm r-r-reporting you to my s-s-su-supervisor."

"That's a dandy idea." Mr. Eberhardt brushed past and started down the hall, guiding his wife by the elbow.