Through the Cracks by Honey Brown

his wrist and there was a bandaid across the back of his hand and one in the crook of his arm. The pain in his lower back was gone and his head was free of any kind of ache. Hospitals weren’t something he’d thought to put together with feeling well.
    His limbs were tired, but in a good way. Moving and stretching, he could feel the walking he had done with Billy, but the twinges and tight pulls were pleasant reminders. The itchy bites had faded.
    In the bathroom mirror Adam saw the square piece of gauze taped to his temple. His hair was greasy. Rubbing his scalp he could feel grains of sand from the beach. His skin smelled clean, but the long lock of his fringe smelled of stale cigarette smoke and the hair gel the barber had palmed through it. Beneath his nails was a line of grime. His teeth had never before felt so unbrushed.
    The hospital toilets were low and small.
    Adam sat there, knees high, feet bare in the narrow cubicle. He wasn’t sure who’d decided he should be in the hospital and be cared for. The only person he could think of with the power to do that was his father. Did his father have that kind of reach despite being dead? None of the doors in the hospital were locked. People were allowed to come and go. If Adam didn’t feel so well, he’d probably be a lot more anxious.
    Up and down the corridor were sounds of cartoons playing and children coughing, soft crying and lowered adult voices. Nurses’ shoes squeaked on the floor. Adam climbed into his bed. He drank a glass of water, noticed that his clothes were folded on a shelf beside him. His sneakers were in a plastic bag. The toothpaste and toothbrush were neatly placed on the shelf above, along with a tightly folded piece of coloured paper. Adam searched his things for the bottle opener. It was gone. He took the squashed bullet of paper, smelled it. Cigarettes. Not the scent of smoke, though, the much nicer smell of the box the cigarettes came in, unlit tobacco, foiled paper.
    Adam unfolded the coloured page. It had a picture of a pair of boxing gloves and a pair of running shoes on it. Adam pressed the unfolded paper to his nose again. Billy. Billy was the reason he was being cared for. Raindrops had dried as raised little splats on the notice. A name had been written in blue pen in the bottom corner of the page. Adam knew enough to understand the first and third letter: A.
    Adam was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. The young nurse came and found him. She would have been pretty if she didn’t stare so flatly and speak in such a lifeless voice.
    ‘That’s the second time you’ve missed seeing the doctor. He won’t see you until tomorrow now.’
    She showed Adam to the showers. With her back turned, walking away, she told him where the towels were. He didn’t catch what she said. Adam waited for someone else to come along to ask about the towels. No one came. Baffling to him, the times he was expected to do things for himself and the times he was meant to let other people do them for him. He washed without a towel, using the pyjama top to dry himself and dry his hair, putting it back on damp.

W hen a man dressed in a dark suit came into the room the following day, Adam thought at first it was the doctor. He was carrying a leather satchel. He went to the boy and asked him how he was feeling. They spoke about what the boy had been watching on TV and the man took a comic book from his bag. He fanned out an array of chocolate bars and the boy was allowed to pick the one he wanted. During this the man looked up, held Adam’s gaze, and Adam knew then he wasn’t a doctor.
    ‘Hello, Adam, I’m Brother Hayden from the True Life Mission. How are you? It’s always struck me that they need some sort of older room, a teen room, in this ward. I’ll have to mention it. I know in other hospitals they have a room set aside, without Peter Rabbit and the Very Hungry Caterpillar everywhere. I wonder if it would be too much to ask for a Walkman, a cassette,