You've Got This, McCoy

I Think I'm Good at Digging Holes for Myself

His arm flopped over my lap, warm and weighty, and his face pressed into my hip as I leaned back against the back of the bed, noticing the TV's light shining into his IV bag.

"Hey," I asked, "You'd rather watch House Hunters or Alaskan Bush People?"

"God, neither of those," he laughed into my side, eyes not opening. "Not houses. Not the forest."

"We can watch..." I drew out the word, eyes narrowed at the small screen hung far above. "Oh, hey, Hitler's on. Or Grand Tour reruns."

"Grand Tour," he decided, despite the fact that he wasn't watching; his eyes were closed, and his face was completely facing my side, forehead flat against me.

I clicked on it, thumb against that grungy rubber button, taking a sip of cocoa, enjoying the peace. The hum and voices of the TV, familiar and jabbering about engine stats I remembered from watching this episode. "You also owe me a drive in the Camaro. Where I drive," I reminded him, looking down, poking at his forearm across my lap, trying to ignore the tiny scabs from scrapes, the patches of white bandaging his arms.

"Sure, Milo," he sighed, and when he did so, and I kept an eye on him, I had this urge to touch his dark hair. I pursed my lips instead, holding in my own sigh. My very best friend...

Mr. Gibbs returned without Melanie, having dropped her off at home, on our second episode of Grand Tour.

"Oh, is this the show that was taken off the BBC?"

I cocked my head. "To be honest, dunno. The first one was, right? And then someone else picked them up."

"You guys hungry? How about a midnight snack?" A.W. pushed himself up slowly as his father brought forward sandwiches, chips, and chocolate pudding in plastic beige cafeteria bowls.

After eating, after falling asleep next to A.W., my nurse came and found me to bring me back to my room to hook me back up to the heart monitor and put me to bed.

I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit.

It was made a bit better by Mr. Gibbs spending some of his sleeping time with me and some with his own son, but I'd rather just be with A.W and him. It'd be easier that way, right? Mr. Gibbs wouldn't have to do any sleep-stumbling room to room.

As if drawn by my inner monologuing between the wakeful hours and foreboding dreams, A.W. came to my room that morning and tumbled into bed like it was his own at home, grunting, "Good morning."

"Mornin'."

His dad came in after, yawning somethin' terrible, making me yawn in turn, seeing A.W.'s legs hanging off the side of the bed, watching his dad heft them onto the edge of the bed.

Then came more sleep. Warm, safe sleep instead of waking up every two hours to see that there were no black claws hidden in the walls and it was the nurse's typing rather than the clacking of breaking wood.

We were playing a game on our phones when our visitors piled in, cross-legged facing each other

"GUYS!" Ronnie crowed, swinging in, Abby and Beaver, Linus and Declan, Matthew and Hannah all piling into my room before my nurse.

A.W. was grinning ear to ear. I was shaking my head fondly. We'd grown up with these guys...

Hannah launched away from the group to be the first to give me a hug as my nurse, Sandra, helped set up the gifts on my bedside table.

We were released from the hospital about a day later, and went back to school the next week, bandages rustling under our t-shirts and hoodies. It was almost nice to be treated as celebrities. For a little while. After that, I just had to get used to the same questions and the same eyes following my every move in our itty bitty school.