crowded freeway in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the United States and Billy was waking up. This was supposed to happen later, back in the mountains where there were plenty of side roads and nothing but the wind to hear his screams. There Barton could reach out to him, could communicate, soothe and offer himself as father, friend and slave.
Here all he could do was clench the steering wheel and hope the child stayed reasonable.
* * *
Billy took experimental breaths, in and out, in and out. There was nothing wrong with his lungs. He felt sick, not hurt. So why in the world had he spent hours in this ambulance? What was going on here?
"Let me go home! I'm fine!" He had to go to the bathroom at once. "I have to use the John. I have to right now!"
Billy was going to realize any second what was happening. Then he would start screaming and struggling, and oh dear God, hadn't he loosened the straps to make sure Billy could breathe? Hadn't he? Yes .. . back in Ogallala . . . loosened the strap around the chest because the child's breathing seemed labored.
He might get free!
Barton began maneuvering through the traffic, taking a few risks. This was getting dreadfully ugly. A few more miles and it would have been different. Even out of the boy's pain Barton could create love, he knew he could. But not now, not under these impossible conditions.
He loathed traffic!
Why didn't the driver say anything except just "go to sleep, go to sleep"? Why didn't he explain? And what about that doctor? Hadn't there been a doctor back here with him, who'd given him a shot . . .
Late last night somebody got him out of his bed, he remembered that. Yes, they put a rag over his face, he thought it was Sally giving him a hard time. Then he got all numb . . . then there was this humming.
Again he tried to get up. It made sense for an ambulance bed to have straps, but not the little ones that held down his wrists and ankles. They weren't just meant to keep him from falling out of bed, not only that. He was really strapped in this thing.
"Let me up!"
Still no answer. It would help a lot if he could see something. He took a deep breath and blew, trying to get the cover off his face. Earlier he'd tried it, he remembered. But the effort was vague, like a barely recalled nightmare. Hadn't he struggled and fought and almost gotten out? Maybe, or maybe he'd just dreamed it.
No, his wrist still hurt where he'd pulled it out of the strap. So that part was real.
What were these straps all about, anyway?
"Will somebody tell me what's going on here!"
Oh, God. He s fully conscious and he's starting to understand and I am just passing the Arvada exit.
At least the towers of the city were now behind him and the traffic was a little thinner. Could people hear somebody screaming from inside a van? If they drove alongside with their windows open, maybe so. He hadn't counted on this and now he wasn't sure of anything except that he was dog-dead tired and beginning to simply give out just when he needed every bit of what was strongest and best in him.
Maybe he had to take action, and maybe it was going to be not the best thing for Billy. Maybe he had to hit him with a real drug. For an extreme emergency there was some two-percent solution. Not a lot, but enough to send Billy flying for a few hours.
Morphine wasn't like those other drugs; morphine worked. Billy would go as high as a kite.
No. Fathers did not give morphine to their sons.
But there was no time to think about it now.
Billy raised his chest as high as it would go, struggling against the straps. He pushed until he couldn't breathe, and pushed still harder—until at last he stopped, gasping, his head pounding with the first real headache he had ever felt in his life.
"Daddy! Daddy!"
He twisted his arms, tried to break his legs loose. The chest strap had give in it, but the others were totally tight. There was no way out. Finally he lay still and tried to think it out.
Here all he could do was clench the steering wheel and hope the child stayed reasonable.
* * *
Billy took experimental breaths, in and out, in and out. There was nothing wrong with his lungs. He felt sick, not hurt. So why in the world had he spent hours in this ambulance? What was going on here?
"Let me go home! I'm fine!" He had to go to the bathroom at once. "I have to use the John. I have to right now!"
Billy was going to realize any second what was happening. Then he would start screaming and struggling, and oh dear God, hadn't he loosened the straps to make sure Billy could breathe? Hadn't he? Yes .. . back in Ogallala . . . loosened the strap around the chest because the child's breathing seemed labored.
He might get free!
Barton began maneuvering through the traffic, taking a few risks. This was getting dreadfully ugly. A few more miles and it would have been different. Even out of the boy's pain Barton could create love, he knew he could. But not now, not under these impossible conditions.
He loathed traffic!
Why didn't the driver say anything except just "go to sleep, go to sleep"? Why didn't he explain? And what about that doctor? Hadn't there been a doctor back here with him, who'd given him a shot . . .
Late last night somebody got him out of his bed, he remembered that. Yes, they put a rag over his face, he thought it was Sally giving him a hard time. Then he got all numb . . . then there was this humming.
Again he tried to get up. It made sense for an ambulance bed to have straps, but not the little ones that held down his wrists and ankles. They weren't just meant to keep him from falling out of bed, not only that. He was really strapped in this thing.
"Let me up!"
Still no answer. It would help a lot if he could see something. He took a deep breath and blew, trying to get the cover off his face. Earlier he'd tried it, he remembered. But the effort was vague, like a barely recalled nightmare. Hadn't he struggled and fought and almost gotten out? Maybe, or maybe he'd just dreamed it.
No, his wrist still hurt where he'd pulled it out of the strap. So that part was real.
What were these straps all about, anyway?
"Will somebody tell me what's going on here!"
Oh, God. He s fully conscious and he's starting to understand and I am just passing the Arvada exit.
At least the towers of the city were now behind him and the traffic was a little thinner. Could people hear somebody screaming from inside a van? If they drove alongside with their windows open, maybe so. He hadn't counted on this and now he wasn't sure of anything except that he was dog-dead tired and beginning to simply give out just when he needed every bit of what was strongest and best in him.
Maybe he had to take action, and maybe it was going to be not the best thing for Billy. Maybe he had to hit him with a real drug. For an extreme emergency there was some two-percent solution. Not a lot, but enough to send Billy flying for a few hours.
Morphine wasn't like those other drugs; morphine worked. Billy would go as high as a kite.
No. Fathers did not give morphine to their sons.
But there was no time to think about it now.
Billy raised his chest as high as it would go, struggling against the straps. He pushed until he couldn't breathe, and pushed still harder—until at last he stopped, gasping, his head pounding with the first real headache he had ever felt in his life.
"Daddy! Daddy!"
He twisted his arms, tried to break his legs loose. The chest strap had give in it, but the others were totally tight. There was no way out. Finally he lay still and tried to think it out.
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