Richard winced.

“Oh, sorry, did I hurt you?” the cop asked anxiously and, to Richard’s relief, removed his rear end from the vicinity.

“It’s only a flesh wound,” Richard said because his brain was foggy and he couldn’t think of anything anywhere near witty to say.

The cop seemed to think this was high comedy. A hearty laugh was followed by a clumsy hair-ruffling.

“No, son, you’re not in a sheet factory. You’re at the Mayo Clinic. The best there is.”

Son. He called him son.

With that, he remembered his leg, the wound on his thigh. “My leg.” The words came out high-pitched and scared. That bothered him but he didn’t try to cover.

“He cut you bad,” the cop replied, looking around for a place to sit. Richard was prepared to scream if he put his butt back on the bed. He didn’t. Condemned to stand, he went on, “The docs’ll tell you more, but the short of it is they got you stitched up, and you’ll be good as new pretty near. You don’t worry about that leg. You don’t worry about a thing. We got you covered.”

The policeman liked him. The belle of the policemen’s ball, Richard thought idiotically.

“You’ll be running track in no time,” Beef Cop said.

Richard nodded weakly and said, “Good.” And “Thanks.” He had no idea what he was thanking the cop for, but people liked to be thanked.

“Yep, the Mayo. The best there is,” the cop reiterated.

Richard needed to see who else was in the room, but, what with beaming Beef and the sheet factory, he couldn’t see more than three feet. The last thing he remembered was Dylan, bleeding, his neck twisted, but still breathing.