The doctor got his little penlight, and I felt a distinct sense of deja vu. I was getting checked for head injuries far too often for my liking. "Follow the little light, I got it," I grumbled, my eyes watering from the brightness. "Keep it up, and I'm going to go blind."
"He's going to have a splitting headache, but I think overall, the main things are his shoulder and ankle," the doctor said. "I would suggest that he stay here for the next day or two, at least until the swelling goes down in the ankle and we can get it booted properly."
"What's wrong with my ankle?" I asked, looking down. Sticking out from under the blanket at a slightly weird angle was a chunky, bulky air cast. At least the damn thing wasn't heavy, although my leg already itched. It was then that I noticed I wasn't wearing any pants either. "Oh. Shit, you guys could have at least just cut the jeans off at the knee."
"We'd have had to finish the job when you go under for full casting," the doctor said with a chuckle. "Don't worry, Mr. Bertoli. I'm sure you can afford a new pair. Oh, and congratulations, by the way."
I looked over at Dad and Dom, confused. "Congratulations?"
Dad nodded. "You're a hero, Tomasso. About a dozen witnesses and three traffic cameras caught you ramming Frakes's vehicle. By the way, that was his name—the bomber and driver. Leonard Frakes."
"Mr. Frakes is in surgery," Dom added, "since your little stunt did a number on him. After that, the FBI will be taking him into custody."
I looked at the doctor, who pulled a face and left the room. "And the Seattle PD?"
"They're happy because they were the ones to get first arrest on the guy," Dom said, "although I think Fritz and Taguchi are having a coronary right now. You're a certified hero, and there's no way in hell they can even approach you, and that's going to hold up for a long time. After all, they still have to convict this guy, and that's going to start a whole new news cycle about your heroism."
I shook my head, stopping when a pounding pain started to bounce from temple to temple. I guess I did have a concussion after all. "And Luisa?"
"She's getting checked out for some minor bruising, but she’s fine," Dad said. "You, on the other hand, have a broken ankle and a dislocated shoulder. The shoulder wasn't much—the doctors said that they popped it back in soon after getting here, but the ankle . . . they're not sure, but you might need surgery."
I looked down at the lumpy air cast at the foot of my bed and realized that my ankle did look a little wonky. Something about the angle, or perhaps the way it turned or something. "I don't feel any pain. What does our favorite grumpy family doctor have to say about it?" I asked, and Dom was the one to laugh.
"We'll check. We've been a little busy running the other loose ends down."
At the mention of loose ends, my smile disappeared, and I looked down. "Guess I screwed up, didn't I? I'm sorry."
Dad glanced at Dominic, who nodded and left the room. Alone, just the two of us, I was surprised when he patted me on my good shoulder. “You did good. You did our family proud today."
I straightened up, smiling, and he continued. “You rest. I'll keep these vultures in the press taken care of. Most of them owe me favors anyway. Dominic can take care of the law. They'll want a statement, of course, but we can delay that a few days. The cops don't care too much—they have Frakes, and they’ve got plenty on him. And Luisa apologized for not telling you she was going shopping, and that her stress was too much for her to deal with."
I nodded, reminding myself to talk to her about that later.
He patted me on the shoulder again, then looked out at the hallway. "Okay. I'll let you rest, and go handle things. I should give Luisa's father a call. He'll be happy to know that the person responsible was caught.”
Dad left, and I looked out the window of my room for a little bit. I was sleepy, and I let my eyes droop shut for a while, only to be woken up when a nurse came in. "Mr. Bertoli? Try not to fall asleep—doctor's orders. At least, not for another four or five hours."
"Well, you could have given me something less sleep-inducing than whatever the hell it is you pumped into me," I grumped, exhausted. My body was already all screwed up because of the swings in sleep and work, and now I had trauma and drugs pumping through my body. I wasn't suffering from concussion issues—I was fucking tired. "What time is it, anyway?"
"Four thirty," the nurse said. "And if you need, I can turn on some television. It's not much, but it might help keep you awake. Dinner comes around in a half-hour, but you're on a liquid-only diet today. Hospital concussion protocol."
There was a polite knock at the door, and I turned to see Luisa, a bandage on her cheek and her wrist wrapped in an ACE bandage, but still looking better than anything else I'd seen so far. "May I come in?"