"What are you thinking about?" I'm aware of his voice, but it takes me a minute to put meaning to his words.
"How I got here," I finally answer and hear a sigh.
"The ambulance brought you here, Soda. You know that."
I do know, but that's not what I'd meant. I'm thinking about the events leading up to the ambulance ride. I'm recalling the type of person I'd been before all this began and imagining what he'd think of us now. I'm trying to remember how this all started in the first place.
It was that night at the trestle.
I remember the dare to jump off into the river below from one of Steve's cocky friends. I'd been hesitant and everyone started making chicken noises at me because I was the only one who'd never done it. I've always been a little reckless, but it was my desperate need to preserve my shaky teenage dignity that had me scaling the bridge.
At the time all I'd been worried about was getting hit by a passing train. It hadn't occurred to me I might get hurt once I jumped until after I'd already done it. It wasn't that the trestle was especially high-maybe 20 feet in the air at best. But that water sure was low.
I'd come out of it with blood trickling from of a deep gash on my head, which my friends all thought was tuff enough. Darry was another story though. After what we'd gone through with Ponyboy collapsing in the street last fall, Darry wasn't in the habit of taking head injuries lightly and I wound up sitting in the office of our family doctor for a dozen stitches.
"So you jumped off a trestle?" Even the doctor sounded amused as he repaired the damage I'd done.
"Uh-huh," I was trying not to move since he was stitching my skin together.
"Can I ask what on earth made you do a thing like that?"
I shrugged, forgetting about the needle for a second. "All my friends were doing it."
He paused for a moment. "Well, I'd ask 'if all your friends jumped off a bridge would you do it too?' but I think we already know the answer to that."
"He's always doing things like this," Darry cut in. He rattled off a few recent examples of my less-than-brilliant schemes as the doctor covered my stiches with a bandage and scratched out a prescription.
"This one's for the pain, if he needs it," he told Darry, handing him a slip of paper. "And this one will help to settle him down a little."
"What is it?" Darry had asked as the doctor handed him a second slip.
"It's a stimulant-" the doctor started and Darry's eyes got wide.
"Oh, no;" he shook his head, "the last thing this kid needs is a stimulant!"
I was annoyed at that. I know I'm not as quiet or brainy as Pony, or as focused as Darry, but I don't think I'm all that bad. I just like to get my kicks when I can.
The doctor had laughed anyway and explained to Darry that stimulants were used to treat hyperactivity. He'd slapped Darry on the shoulder and led us out to the reception area, promising that one pill a day was all it would take.
As I lie in the hospital bed with Darry staring at me, I can hardly remember a time when I took just one pill a day.