Neal pointed a shaking finger at Natasha. “That...that
“What?” Annie said. She let out a short laugh, but then her eyes became wide with fear. She took a step backwards, through the doorway, and held the baby defensively. “You’re losing your mind.”
“Oh, am I?” Neal picked up the trophy and thrust it towards her. “She smeared her shit all over the end of this thing to make sure I got an infection!”
Annie’s eyes became even wider.
“Smell it, if you don’t believe me!
She stared at Neal for a second, then turned and carried Natasha into the bedroom, and shut the door. Neal heard the lock click.
She was afraid of him…
Neal stumbled over to the dinette table and fell into one of the chairs. “Holy Christ,” he said in a hush. “What am I doing? What am I
Neal swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure of which he was more afraid—going stir crazy or that his baby daughter was actually trying to do him in.
He remained slumped in his chair for another half hour, as the early-morning light gradually filled the room. He could hear Natasha’s muffled crying for a few minutes, but then the sound stopped in an abrupt way, accompanied by some coughing, which told Neal that Annie was nursing her. Finally, the alarm clock went off. He decided he had no choice but to try and pull himself together and get ready for work.
* * *
By noon that day, Neal was certain that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere on the Interstate. “TRAFFIC BOUND FOR HELL—EXIT ONLY,” the sign must have said.
He sat outside a hi-rise office building in Sandy Springs, trying to work up enough courage to struggle his way out of the van and carry the order of roses he was supposed to deliver into the lobby. He had stopped at a drugstore on his way to work and picked up his pain killers, but they didn’t seem to help much. He had taken six already, two more than he should have, but they only dulled the throbbing in his foot. The pills also seemed to have the unpleasant side-effect of making him nauseous. And the doctor had been right about the swelling getting worse before it got better. Now, the skin on the sole of his foot was stretched so tightly it felt like the whole appendage was about to burst. The only positive thing was that his shoulder was staring to feel better—at least the pain killers seemed to work on that part of his body.
He had worn a pair of old, faded sneakers to work, the only shoes that were halfway bearable to wear under the circumstances. This had allowed him to hide his injury from the Snells, though just barely.
Neal glanced at the office building again, dreading the seemingly vast distance that separated him from the lobby. He started to open the door, then shut it again. No, he had to rest for another couple of minutes. He decided to take another look at his foot.
He grunted and carefully removed his right sneaker, then slipped off his sock. The top of his foot looked a bit red to him, particularly around the bandage. It also felt “hot to the touch,” as the doctor had said.
He pulled up the bottom of his pants and inspected his ankle and calf, but he didn’t see any red streaks. Yet, his instincts told him that his foot was well into the process of becoming infected. But how could he know for sure? It seemed to him that it might be hot and red just from walking around on it all morning. Plus, didn’t it take longer to get an infection?
Neal wished he had asked the doctor how long it would take for the symptoms to appear. Then again, he would have sounded like a hypochondriac. But hadn’t the doctor said that it was “likely” that an infection would develop? Well, no, he didn’t say “likely.” He said there was a “chance” that an infection could devel—
