Page 50 of Redline Baby

"You should probably stop moving that," I say, nodding toward his left arm.

"It's fine. Totally fine. I've had paper cuts worse than this."

I don't say anything. Across the room, the toddler's cup tower collapses again. His mother, slumped in her chair with her head tipped back against the wall, doesn't open her eyes. The meteorologist points at a cold front.

"You don't have to do this," Kit says suddenly. His voice is quieter now. Stripped of the performance, just for a second. He's looking at the floor instead of me. "You don't have to sit here. I'm fine. You can go. I'll get a ride or something. I know this is too boring. I can’t ask you you to stay."

I don't answer immediately.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Kit's knee stops bouncing. Just for a second. Then it starts again, faster. "Suit yourself," he says, and the brightness returns to his voice. "But if they call my name and I have to get a shot, I'm warning you now, I'm a huge baby about needles. I will embarrass both of us."

A nurse appears in the doorway to the back, holding a tablet.

"Christopher Matthews?"

Kit is on his feet before she finishes the name. He turns and flashes that huge, weaponized grin at me. "Showtime."

I stand. I follow him.

The curtained bay is small and brightly lit, maybe six by eight feet, sectioned off from the main corridor by hanging fabric the color of hospital linens that have been washed ten thousand times. There's an exam table with a paper cover, a rolling stool, a counter with a sink, and a monitor mounted to one wall.

"Up on the table," the nurse says, patting the paper with one gloved hand.

Kit hops up, trying to make it look easy. The effort costs him. His face tightens for half a second when his left shoulder shifts, then smooths over again. He settles onto the paper with his legs hanging off, left arm cradled against his ribs. Still smiling. The performance hasn't dropped.

The nurse takes his blood pressure, pulse, temperature.

Then she starts asking questions.

Helmet? Yes. Loss of consciousness? No. Vomiting? No. Dizziness? A little, after the crash. Neck pain? No. Chest pain? No. Numbness or tingling in the injured arm? No.

"When was your last tetanus shot?"

Kit stares at her.

"That feels like a trap."

She waits.

"Five years? Six? Maybe? No idea."

"We'll check your records if we can. If we can't confirm you're current, we'll update it."

He looks at me.

"I hate this place," he mouths.

"I know," I smile at him.

The nurse carefully removes the dressing from his forearm. The injury looks worse than it did at the shop. There is road rash along the outside of the arm, raw and angry, with one deeper laceration cutting through the abrasion.

The nurse looks at it. Then at Kit's shoulder.

"A provider will be in shortly."

"Excellent," Kit says. "Love having a team."