Bullet in the Night by Judith Rolfs

passenger seat trying to find a comfortable position.
    Another vehicle approached and slowed down. The driver stared then whipped his head in the opposite direction and sped up.
    “Hopefully it’s only a sprain, but a doctor can tape it up far better than my husband could.” I huddled as close to the door as my seat belt would allow.
    Chris turned the key in the ignition. “Now which way?”
    “Turn on 67. Take it through Williams Bay to the corner of Highway 50. You’ll see it on your right.” Bile rose in my stomach, and I bent over clutching my arms across my chest.
    “Are you okay?”
    “A little queasy but I’ll be all right.”
    Next time I looked up, we were at Mercy. Chris had driven directly to the ER entrance. Three wheelchairs, lined up under the overhang, waited like a welcoming committee.
    Chris got out, grabbed a chair, and helped me into it while I assumed the role of a ninety-year-old invalid. I was too busy dealing with pain to protest as she pushed me to the registration desk. I breathed a deep sigh, grateful for assistance .
    A curly-headed, fortyish blonde intake clerk with a harsh face that contrasted with the smiley face circle pin at her neck wasn’t thrilled about registering me when I told her I didn’t have my insurance card on me. Lack of medical I.D. required a check in the bowels of the computer bank to confirm I was a reasonable risk for bill payment. She sighed non-stop while her hands busied themselves on the keyboard.
    A young man ran in behind me and dropped on the floor moaning. He managed to say, “I need to see someone immediately. I think I have a kidney stone.”
    The clerk glanced at him and said very calmly, “I’ll be right with you.”
    I was about to tell her to make him a priority when she finished checking me in.
    “Next time remember to run with your medical card between your teeth,” Chris quipped as a nurse wheeled me to a curtained-off cubicle twenty minutes later.
    A row of beds were separated from one another by canvas drapes on ceiling rollers. Nurse Sheri and an aide who appeared from nowhere helped me onto one of the narrow slabs covered with a white sheet. Hospital furniture designers must think only twig-like people needed medical attention.
    The aide promptly swirled yards of white curtain with one swift tug along a thick aluminum track, shutting me off from the other curtained cubicles. Good thing. Voices chattered in the reception area. Things were starting to hum around here.
    A dark-skinned female doctor, who appeared to be about thirty but could have been fifty, breezed into my cubicle. I described what happened in response to her questioning. She probed my leg, my ankle, and foot. I tried to decipher the long Indian name sewn on the pocket of her white jacket.
    By now my anklebone looked like a ball of Silly Putty had been stuck under it. She ordered x-rays of my head, too, and used scary words like “possible concussion.” I tuned out the possibilities of additional injuries running in my head.
    “My head’s okay; it’s my ankle. I don’t do concussions,” I insisted.
    She said nothing, turned her back on me, and disappeared.
    I squeezed my smarting, blood-spattered hands into fists. They still hadn’t given me so much as a Tylenol for pain.
    The aide returned and wheeled me off to x-ray. I closed my eyes while pictures were taken. My first quiet moment to think. Had I been incredibly foolish or was someone chasing me? Could that crack have been a gunshot? I was certain those were footsteps running behind me. A sudden chill ran down my spine. Chris had appeared out of nowhere. Was that simply providential or strange?
    The aide pushed me back to the reception area to wait for the doctor to check my x-rays.
    Chris put down the People Magazine she was leafing through.
    I tried to make small talk. “You said you’re in this area for your work? What do you do, Chris?”
    She hesitated a moment before answering. “Investigator for an