Challenge 91 Revisited: A Coffin for Starsky: Holding On
His hand is hot. I take hold of it as he reaches across the desk. I will the poison that is killing him to leach through his fingers into mine. It's not normal they say, for men to touch like this. They teased us at the academy. Even now they whisper and joke in the halls. My father's eyes narrow as he sees us brush against each other. He only understands a firm handshake or a quick slap on the back. Not this life affirming connection.
"If this were a cowboy movie I'd give you my boots." He tries to sound macho as he holds my hand. The fever makes his fingers a searing brand.
A gulf of life and death lies between us, camouflaged as the squad room desk we lean across. What other people think no longer matters. Only that we hold tight to each other, our fierce grip saying we refuse to let go without a fight. Yet our odds of winning this battle dwindle with the hours on the clock. I'm not above making deals with the devil. I'd be in hell without him anyway.
"You're my pal, Hutch," he tells me.
God, what an understatement.