Lay Me Down

23. Told you so.

{Jon}

Jon had never thought about how much he appreciated his body feeling fine until he couldn't move or draw a breath without a stab of pain. Rolling over, standing, using the washroom, and even just washing his hands took an agonizing series of movements that left him breathless and on the verge of tears. He braced himself on the edge of the hospital bed with his hands on either side of his legs, barely listening as the nurse went over his prescription. Eight weeks to return to normal sounded like an impossibly long time. How many thousands of these short, stabbing breaths would he have to take before it was over?

He was stuck on the couch in the family room, watching Bea's cartoons, trying to hold still to keep the pain at bay when Cary came in. Jon just moved his eyes to look at him.

"Hey—where were you?" Jon said.

"Got your dad's bike back," Cary said. He pushed a disheveled handful of hair out of his face.

Jon's stomach sank, remembering. "Was he mad?"

"No." Cary bent to pick up one of Bea's stuffies and tossed it into the laundry basket where they were supposed to go. "Not like he should have been." He put his hands in his pockets and stood there like he wanted something, but didn't know how to say it. "How you?" He asked finally, nudging his chin at Jon's chest.

Jon tried to shrug and grimaced. "You got a trick for this part—how to deal? I kinda thought those pain meds would make it just not hurt."

"Bones are broken," Cary said. "If you were moving around like it was fine, it wouldn't heal." He paused. "What did the docs give you?"

Jon fumbled the pill bottle out of his pocket and held it out. "One of those every four hours."

Cary took the bottle, handling it with the tips of his fingers like it might bite. The corner of his mouth twisted. "Yeah, these are good. You can get high off just a couple, so be careful."

Jon snorted. "I wish."

Cary flipped the bottle back into his lap and wiped his hand on his shirt. "They're opioids—same as heroin."

Jon's eyebrows climbed to his hairline. "You kidding me?"

"Nope," Cary said.

Jon's laugh made pain stab across his chest, and he shut his eyes to try and breathe. "That's like the only good news all day," he said in a squeezed voice. "Docs gave me legal heroin." The pain receded, and he unclenched his fist and let his breath out slowly.

"Perks." Cary said dryly.

Jon opened his eyes and made a face at the actors bouncing around on the screen in terrycloth costumes. "Pass me the remote? Bea left like 10 minutes ago and hasn't come back."

Cary walked to the TV set and retrieved the remote. He handed it to Jon and slouched onto the other end of the couch. The thick, pink scars on his wrists were plain in his shirtsleeves, and they had new significance for Jon.

"How many times have you done this?" he asked.

"Fetched your remote?" Cary's voice was bland. "Too many times. You're lazy, Jon White."

Jon barked a laugh, then hugged an arm against his rib, still smiling. "No, asshole. Broke a bone."

Cary crossed his arms loosely over his body. "Too many times. I forget."

"I dislocated my shoulder once before this—does that count?"

"Yeah. I'd rather break my arm."