the horse had been real, someone would have seen him. It could have been him, because he remembered the rage.
Verona shook his hand again, and Don's eyes blurred with tears when his parents returned.
Must have been. Hysteria, and shock, and maybe he wasn't crazy after all. His friend had been summoned because of the fear, but Don had done it all on his own. He had blacked out and done it himself. No magic. No giant stallion. He had killed a man. All on his own.
He wept for nearly half an hour-loudly, then noiselessly, soaking his mother's blouse while she stroked his hair and kissed his cheek and his father held his hand so tightly the knuckles cracked. He wept until Dr.
Naugle returned and hustled the room clear, saying Don needed his rest if he wanted to go home to get something decent to eat. Norman was reluctant, but he went; Joyce embraced him once more and whispered, 'I know you're not Sam, dear. You're my Donny, and I love you.'
Without a pill he slept soundly until well after noon.
When he woke the IV was gone and the nurse was there with a tray of food he ate without tasting. When he begged for more, she laughed and told him there'd be plenty when he got home; when he wondered about his parents, they were there and told him there was a mob of kids down in the waiting room eager to see him. A group of reporters too. It was, his father said in quiet excitement, as if the President were in town. Don was pleased and tried not to show it, embarrassed because the image of the stallion still darted through his vision, and anxious because suddenly all he wanted to do was go home and take a close look at the poster on his wall.
Maybe he wasn't crazy, but he still had to know.
'And do you know what else?' his mother said. 'Are you ready for this?
The mayor wants to give you a medal at the concert tonight. A medal! Can you believe it?'
'Me? Me, a medal?'
A look to his father brought a proud nod; a look to his mother brought him another kiss.
'I can't,' he said, fingers digging into the stiff sheet. 'I can't, Mom.'
'We'll talk about it later, when you get home, dear,' she said quickly and softly. 'We'll send up the kids now, while I get you some clean clothes.'
greensparks greenfire
Don didn't understand why Tracey was wearing jeans and an old jacket until he remembered that school was closed today, because of Amanda. Nor did he understand why Lichter had to come with her.
Tracey, after exchanging glances with Jeff, took the chair while he sat on the bed and grabbed for Don's hand.
'The Detention Kid strikes again,' he said heartily. 'Man, are you nuts or something?'
'Shut up, Jeff,' Tracey ordered gently, and leaned over to kiss Don's cheek. Her hand found his and held it. 'Are you all right?'
'I think so,' he said. 'I didn't get hurt or anything. Your father-hey, easy on the merchandise,' he protested to Jeff, pulling free his hand and wincing in false pain. 'I'm a black belt, remember?'
'I remember you're crazy, that's what I remember.'
'It takes one to know one.'
'Very funny.'
'Don,' Tracey said, 'Brian says-'
'' Shit on Brian,'' Jeff mumbled.
'-my father was the one who did it, not you. He's saying all kinds of crazy things, like he chased you home last night before you even got to the park.' Concern was then replaced by a smile. 'But nobody's listening.'
'Did they ever?' he asked without much humor, then swallowed the sour moment with an effort that made him grunt.
'You okay?' Jeff said quickly.
'Gas,' he said, patting his stomach. 'It's the food. Almost as bad as Beacher's.'
Jeff laughed, slapped the mattress and looked to Tracey. She giggled, shook her head, and he told her to go ahead.
'What?' Don said, not liking the intimacy. 'What?'
'Beacher,' Tracey started, then burst out laughing, shook her head and her hand and inhaled deeply to choke off the fit. 'He's named a sandwich after you.'
'He did what?'
Jeff nodded. 'He named a sandwich after you and he's serving it to all the reporters! God, can you believe it?'
'What is it, raw hamburger?'
'No. It's ...' Jeff stood and leaned against the wall to keep from falling down. 'It's grilled cheese and bacon, with lettuce and onions.'
'What?' Don yelled. 'I don't even like grilled cheese. What the hell does that have to do with anything?'
'Who the hell knows? But if you go in and ask for a Don Boyd Special, that's what you get.'
It was prairie fire laughter that spread from one to the other, dying down, then roaring again, until his sides ached and his cheeks felt ready to split and his lungs refused to give him enough air. Jeff crumpled to the floor with his hands locked over his stomach. Tracey rolled in her chair until it slammed back against the wall and nearly skidded out from under her. The nurse looked in once, and saw them and grinned and winked at them to quiet down; Dr. Naugle came by and suggested loudly they calm down before they were all put in straitjackets.
Don sobered first, blinking away the tears and moaning while the ache faded from his ribs.
The nurse reappeared, arms folded over her chest, one eyebrow lifted to signal the end of the visit.
'Shit,' Jeff whispered, and shook his hand again, averting his eyes when Don saw the question there-did you really kill him with your own two hands?
'See you later,' Tracey told him before the question could be asked.
'Take care of yourself, hero, okay? We'll see you later, maybe tonight.'
She kissed him on the lips, once and quickly, so quickly he couldn't taste it. When they were through the door, he watched as Tracey went left, as Jeff grabbed her hand and pulled her to the right. She giggled; he hushed her with his head close to hers.
A sandwich, he thought; Jesus Christ, a sandwich!
greensparks and greenfire
and the stallion's silhouette against the white of the moon
'I wouldn't let him come up,' Chris said, perching on the mattress by his hip. 'He's acting like an asshole. Would you believe, even Tar thinks he's acting like a jerk?'
Gratefully, and somewhat embarrassed, he turned his cheek toward her oncoming lips, and was nonplussed when she cupped his face in her hands, turned it back, and gave him a kiss he knew the doctor wouldn't approve of. She didn't seem to notice his bewilderment, only leaned away and slumped so that her man's white shirt bagged over her breasts under the fall of her hair.
'I think he's jealous.'
'Brian?' That he could not believe. 'You're kidding.'
'Well,' she said, one hand leaning on his waist, 'he's been drinking already. Smells like a brewery, and he can't figure out why the reporters won't talk to him anymore.' A finger toyed with the sheet. 'He said ...' A look without looking up. 'He said something about Donny Duck to them, y'know?'
'Wonderful,' he said.
'Oh, don't worry about it. Nobody cares. My god, you're a genuine hero, you know that? I mean, you're the kind of man that craphead only dreams about.''
'Jesus, Chris.' He looked to the window and wished she'd go away. No, he thought in a panic. No; just lay off the bullshit.
'No, really.'
'God, knock it off, huh?'
'Man can't take a compliment,' she said to the wall.
'Well ...'
She laughed silently and pushed her hair back behind her ears, the movement half-turning her toward him so he could see, if he wanted, the flat of her chest where the shirt was creased back.
