They numb Sam's hand so that he hardly feels the stitches. After that they wrap it in a thick mix of gauze and bandages so that he can't close his hand properly. The doctor tells him this is so that he doesn't reopen the wound. Sam knows that the implication is supposed to be that he doesn't accidentally open the wound, but something in the doctor's voice suggests that he thinks he may try to do this on purpose. The doctor spends a good amount of time speaking to his parents out of earshot, and when he returns he pulls up a chair to the cot where Sam is sitting. He smiles warmly.
"So Sam, your parents tell me you've been having some problems lately."
Sam's eyes shift over to where his parents are standing down the hall. "Not really," he says.
"They tell me you've been experiencing spells recently. That you've been disoriented, confused…"
Sam shrugs. "I've just been stressed I guess."
The doctor clears his throat. "Now Sam, I can't help you if you aren't honest with me. Your parents told me that this incident of yours was a result of sleepwalking, that you were having some sort of hallucination."
Sam feels his face flush red. "They're just dreams. I'm not hallucinating."
"That may be so, but either way we'd like to try to get to the bottom of it. Now we'd like to run a couple tests to see what might be causing this unusual behavior. Would that be alright?"
Sam swallows hard. He doesn't want to be here. He wants to go home, but the concern on his parents faces as they stand out there in the hall gives him pause. "I guess that's fine."
Over the next several hours Sam is subjected to all sorts of pokes and prods. Taken to different rooms and scanned by various machines. They drawl vial after vial blood, they put him in a room of flashing lights and measure his brain activity. They test his vision, then his hearing. They look for lumps, and spots, and anything the doctors refer to as 'possibly malignant' and all to no avail. The sun is setting by the time the doctor comes into Sam's room and announces that all of his tests have come back clear. His parents are both relieved and disappointed at the same time. They prescribe him pills to help him sleep through the night and give his parents a list of recommendations for psychiatrists in the area who specialize in anxiety disorders. His mother squeezes his good hand, "You ready to go home, Sweetheart?"
"I'd love that," Sam says.
"I have a little surprise for you when we get home," Mary says smiling.
A nurse brings him out to their blue SUV in a wheelchair despite his protests that he can walk just fine. Hospital policy, she tells him. As he moves to get in the back seat he finds that his father is moving with him, as if he expects him to fall. Do they really think he's that fragile?
On the car ride home he rests his forehead against the window and watches the world pass by. Lawrence. It's been his home his entire life, yet all of the sights look brand new to him. They pass through the center of town, where people are busily moseying through their day. Heading home from work. Going home to kids and to families who are waiting for them. They pass a park and Sam sees a boy throwing a Frisbee to his dog. Sam's eyes fixate on the scene as they pass. He wishes he had a dog. But his father told him that motel rooms are no place for pets. And his father is right of course; moving from city to city, place to place is no life for a dog. Still, he wishes he could have one.
He sighs deeply and catches his fathers eyes glancing back at him in the rearview mirror.
"I was thinking tomorrow maybe we'd go out fishing. I think fresh air would do you good," John says.
"Yeah, maybe," says Sam.
"Hey," John says loudly, "Don't look so blue, kiddo. Everything is going to be just fine, hear me?"
Mary turns around in in the passenger seat. "And I know something that's going to cheer you up a little."
They pull up to the front of the house and Sam's heart does a somersault, because there in the driveway is the impala and leaning against it, smiling that cocky little grin of his, is his brother.