van—he would have to take time off without pay. If he tried to take sick time so soon after being hired, he would probably lose his job. Of course, losing the job at Snell’s wouldn’t be anything to cry over, but at least he got paid. And God knew he and Annie needed the money.
“Also,” the doctor said, after he had finished explaining the procedures, “I should warn you, there is a good chance you could develop an infection.”
“Infection?” Neal said, suddenly attentive again.
“Yes. Puncture wounds like this are particularly infection-prone. We don’t know what kind of foreign matter might have been on the end of that trophy you stepped on, bacteria or whatever. You’ve had a recent tetanus shot, so I’m not worried about that. But you could develop some other infection. If your foot really starts to swell or turns red or feels hot to the touch, you need to come back and we’ll put you on some antibiotics. Also, if you see any red streaks moving up your leg, you need to come back here immediately. That would indicate a very serious infection.”
Neal nodded, feeling a little uneasy, and looked down at his foot. It was already so swollen if felt like he had a golf ball sown into the bottom of it.
“Can’t you just give me some antibiotics right now, so an infection won’t even have a chance to get started?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I can give you something for the pain, though.” The doctor pulled a prescription pad out of his white jacket and started writing. “Take a couple of these every four hours, as long as you need them.”
“Thanks,” Neal said, taking the slip of paper. “But...”
“But what?”
In Neal’s mind, he could still clearly see the sharp, rusty metal that had punctured his foot. “I still think I better take some antibiotics right now, before any infection even has a chance to start. Don’t you?”
The young physician smiled. “Sorry, but that’s not how we practice medicine these days. We don’t give antibiotics until the symptoms of the infection appear and are diagnosed. Unless, of course, the patient is particularly susceptible to infection, for some reason.” He picked up Neal’s chart and looked it over. “You didn’t list anything of that nature.”
“No,” Neal said. “I’m healthy. As far as I know, anyway.” He remembered snide remark Annie had started to make about taking him to “another” kind of hospital.
“Good,” the doctor said. “Then I’m sure you won’t have a problem.”
CHAPTER 5
It was almost dawn when the fledgling Family Becker got home from the hospital. Annie went to sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. Natasha had been asleep when Neal came out of the emergency room and (to his relief) had stayed that way ever since. Now, she was in her crib, and Neal could hear her breathing little, hoarse baby-breaths.
He lay there on his back until just before six a.m., his throbbing foot propped up on a pillow to minimize swelling, as the doctor had instructed. Neal thought it was all in vain, however. He was convinced that the wound was teeming with bacteria and it was only a matter of time before symptoms of infection appeared and he returned to the emergency room. A part of him told him that he was being a hypochondriac, but another part of him seemed certain about it.
As he lay there, a phrase the doctor had said popped into his mind:
Neal sat up in the bed and gazed at the tennis trophy. He could see it clearly now in the dawn light, sitting on the top shelf of his trophy case, where he had put it before Annie had taken him to the hospital. Before they had left, he had glanced at the end of it to see if anything more had broken off, but he hadn’t really paid that much attention to its cleanliness.
Neal quietly got up and, with considerable difficulty, limped across the room to the trophy case. When he passed the crib, he fought the urge to look at Natasha, afraid he would see those black eyes again. But he could not help himself.
