Chapter 17

Around 2:30 in the morning, Charlie woke up and called Kristin. He needed to go to the bathroom. He was still very tired, but he didn't feel as badly as he had last night. After Kristin helped him walk to the bathroom and back, she checked his temperature again and smiled. "Already down a degree," she said. "Just listen to Brunhilda."

She patted him on the arm and left.

Charlie switched on the fluorescent light over the bed, squinting for a while in the brightness. Then, he cautiously picked up the newspaper Larry had left behind.

He scanned the article. Gary Sanborn. Gary was in one of Charlie's lower division classes, and he wasn't doing well. When he had come for help, Charlie had learned that he wasn't doing well in a lot of classes, and was in danger of losing his scholarship. Charlie had helped him. He had helped him with the math class, he had found tutors for him, he had spoken with other professors and talked them into giving Gary extra help.

He thought Gary liked him.

He looked at the alphabetical list of dead students.

Alyssa Atkinson, Freshman. He had heard Larry speak of Alyssa. A good student, physics major, already taking sophomore-level classes in her first year.

Samuel Dinkins, Sophomore. Arnold Fizgerald, Sophomore. Karen Kincaid, Junior. He didn't know them, but just reading their names made him sad. Someone knew them. Someone loved them.

Preston Peterson, Junior. Charlie caught his breath. He was Preston's advisor. He was an applied mathematics major, but the other sciences — other disciplines — didn't interest him. He took only the classes he had to, to meet requirements. Charlie remembered talking Preston into taking Physics 203.

Billy Sampson, Sophomore. A sound escaped Charlie. Billy was another of his students, another math major. He was also on the school's swim team, and a member of the student government. He was popular, yet a serious student, always smiling. Happy to be at Cal Sci. Excited to learn.

Charlie replaced the paper on the table. After a few minutes, he turned out the light. He pressed his head into the pillow, squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again.

He stared at the ceiling.

He was crying, but he didn't know it.

He stared at the dark ceiling for hours, until the rising sun cast its light through the window and chased the shadows from the room.

He called Kristin again.

He wanted some more Demerol.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don got to the hospital the next day before his father and Archie. He had a lunch appointment with Director Merrick later, and he hadn't slept well, alternating between worry over Charlie and wondering why the Director had called him. Finally he had given up, gone out for an early breakfast and was at the hospital by 8.

Charlie stared up at him from the bed with glassy eyes. He raised his cast. "Hey."

Don smiled at him. "Hey. Feeling any better this morning?"

Charlie grinned sloppily. "Drugs. Wonnerful thins."

Don laughed a little. Charlie was loopy. Morphine hadn't done this — morphine had rendered him unconscious. This must be something else. "How's your fever?"

Charlie raised his other arm and looked like he was going to rub his head, but stopped when he saw the dangling IV lines, and stared at them as if he had never seen them before. Then he dropped the arm again and looked at Don. "Wha?"

"I asked if you still have a fever. What are you on, anyway?"

"Dunno." Charlie started chanting, a sort of math-professor-in-a-hospital-bed rap. "Dunno temp. Dunno drug. Dunno how many fleas in the rug!"

Don laughed again. "Dude. I think you need some more sleep."

Charlie's mood suddenly shifted, and he reached awkwardly for the newspaper. "Take this 'way," he complained, "Don' wan."

Don took the newspaper, saw the headline, registered the date. He looked at Charlie. "How did you get this?"

Charlie tried to turn onto his side, awakening every wound still healing, groaned and gave up. He shut his eyes. "Billy."

"What? Who? Is there someone you want me to call?"

Charlie opened his eyes again and glared at the paper Don was still holding. "I don' unnerstan. I read it, I read the words, bu's wrong, Donnie, is all wron…"

Don dropped the newspaper into the trash can beside the bed as he came nearer and touched Charlie's upper arm.

"Just take it easy, Buddy. We'll figure it out later."

Charlie looked up at him, desperate and heartbroken. "Later?"

Don smiled to reassure him. "Yeah. I'll help. I promise. Don't think about it anymore. Get some more sleep before someone decides you should be doing something else."

His brother sighed, then yawned. He began to play with his IV lines, not looking at Don. "'Mise?"

"Yes. Promise. Go to sleep, Charlie."

Suddenly, Charlie's mood shifted again, and he looked at Don with a grin. "I GOT MARRIED!", he yelled, and Don laughed again.

"I know, Charlie, I've met her. Archie will be here soon."

Charlie kept grinning. "Wife be here."

Then, still grinning, he closed his eyes and slept.