Page 7 of Property of Mongrel

“Not even coffee?” I question. “Gretchen, that sucks.”

“Them’s the rules, Mongrel, and they’re there to protect the patient. If you aspirate because you’ve got something in your stomach while under anesthesia, it could cause some serious issues.”

“Fine,” I grumble. “Just be prepared because I’m kind of grouchy without my morning hit of caffeine.”

“Well, so is Doc and in solidarity with you, he’s not going to drink any either,” she says.

“Does he know this?” Constance asks, grinning.

“Um, not yet, I’m going to let him know later,” Gretchen confesses, giggling.

“Mmhm, you’re gonna get him all loved up then hit him when he’s relaxed,” Maria surmises, laughing.

“And with that, I’m outta here,” I decree.

One last ride. At least for now. As I aimlessly head into town, I mentally go through all the things I have in preparation for the next few days. Am I looking forward to this? Not really, but the pain is a constant these days, as if my body knows what’s getting ready to happen. I forget about the letter from the attorney’s office, deciding to ask Rio if I can talk to the club attorney to see how best to proceed. I don’t care that selling the family-owned business will put any of those people out of work. Nor do I particularly give a shit that the money from the sale of the business will add to my coffers.

Stopping in town, I decide to eat my last meal at the diner. If I remember correctly, tonight is meatloaf, one of my favorites. The food here is almost as good as what Constance and Maria prepare; I just need to be by myself for a bit.

Walking in, I see a man with a little boy around six or seven and grin, seeing him with a smaller version of the Stetson that’s next to the man’s plate. Since most of us started out working the ranch, we’ve all got our ‘cowboy gear’, but nowadays, most of us have steel and chrome horses instead of the real thing. Still, I enjoy riding from time to time on one of the many that the ranch keeps around. And when I’m available and Issy wants to take Stargazer through her paces, I’ll ride Starlight. Gotta say, those barrel racers are fucking crazy, that’s for damn sure.

The waitress hollers out, “Sit where you want, Mongrel,” as I walk through and I find myself at a two-seater near the man and little boy.

“Why’s his name Mongrel, Daddy?” the little boy asks.

I feel the man glance over before he says, “He’s in a motorcycle club, Liam, so that’s probably his road name.”

“A motorcycle club is around here?” Liam questions, moving his head back and forth as though he’s trying to see my bike.

“Yeah, son. The Kings of Anarchy make their home here. They’ve got a ranch, and have rodeos twice a year, I believe,” the dad patiently answers.

“I wanna learn how to ride a bull,” Liam decrees.

“How about we wait until you’re taller than four feet?” his dad replies. “Now, do you want dessert tonight, or should we just make sundaes at home?”

“With whipped cream?” Liam asks. “And sprinkles?”

The man chuckles as he pulls out his wallet and tosses down enough money for the bill and a sizable tip. “Yes, and yes, but we need to stop and pick it up because I think somebody used what was left the last time we made them.”

“Daddy, it’s because they’re so good!” Liam exclaims.

Their voices fade as they leave, and I’m left grinning and shaking my head as the waitress comes over to take my food and drink order.

Time to focus on eating and hydrating before the midnight hour hits, I guess.

CHAPTER

FOUR

Addy

I look over the chart of the new patient I’ll be seeing today, my heart breaking. It’s a little boy, seven years old, who goes by JB. Apparently, he ‘pissed off’ his stepfather, who threw him through a sliding glass door. The little guy ended up with a broken arm, a broken leg, and nearly two hundred stitches from all the lacerations he received. He spent almost a month in the hospital, then was placed in foster care since his mother was high as a kite and thought it was funny to see her son ‘fly through the air’.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I murmur as I look at the pictures included in the file. Aside from the school picture, there are the ones showing his initial injuries, then subsequent progression ones each time a cast was changed and shortened.

JB is small for his age, with a gap-toothed smile, courtesy of the school picture. Because in the other pictures I’m scrolling through, his infectious grin is gone, and the light has dulled in his eyes. His injuries were significant, but after twelve weeks, he’s now out of his casts, and it’s time to start rebuilding strength and helping him regain range of motion. His foster mother, Darby Rossi, is someone I’ve worked with in the past and I know her soft heart probably shattered for this little boy who didn’t deserve to be abused in this manner.

I read through the orthopedist’s notes, jotting down my plan of action once I’ve done my assessment of where he’s at right now. The doctor seems to feel that he may end up with a slight limp even with physical therapy, and while I respect his professional knowledge, he needs to know that I wouldn’t try to perform surgery so he should stay in his lane. Not that I’d ever voice that to him because he’s well-known throughout the physical therapist community as a bit of an egotistical jackass. In his opinion, while he recommends physical therapy to his surgical patients, he doesn’t really believe in it. Personally, I think he should have retired several years ago, because methods are always changing. I am glad to see that while JB appears to have some scars from all the lacerations, the plastic surgeon who did the work did a phenomenal job.