Chapter 5

Schofield's surgery was scheduled for the very next day at 8:00 am and Book promised he'd be there to see him off, which was why he was pulling into the hospital car park at an ungodly hour of the morning. On the way there, Buck had wondered what was going through the young lieutenant's head. So much, it seemed, rested on the outcome of this procedure.

If it was him, Book knew he wouldn't have slept at all last night – too busy worrying, he would have tried to write but it almost certainly would have been an unproductive waste of his time – but maybe Shane was the sort that could force himself to rest no matter the circumstances if it passed the time. There wasn't, after all, much else he could do.

So when he entered the sparse hospital room – with a short, sharp knock, as always – he was met with a surprise.

Schofield was most certainly awake.

In fact, he was sitting up in his bed and staring at the ceiling with his face screwed up in a look of intense concentration. Lying in front of him, open on the bed, was a book with thick, stiff pages and as far as Buck could tell, no writing. Shane's fingers traced slowly over barely distinguishable bumps and ridges.

"What on earth are you doing?" Riley asked, settling himself down in the chair under the window.

He could've sworn Schofield gave a little start as his head jerked away from the ceiling and instead faced somewhere just over Buck's right shoulder. He'd been concentrating so hard that he hadn't even heard Buck arrive.

"Trying to teach myself braille," he replied.

Book snorted.
"Bit late for that, isn't it?"

Schofield shrugged.
"Just in case."

It was the first time he'd actually mentioned any lingering nerves or doubts he might have been having over the possible outcome of the surgery. After Walsh's visit and Buck's outburst, they had spent the rest of the previous day reading and quietly discussing inane topics like the Super bowl.

Whilst Buck – having grown up in Texas – could proudly claim the Dallas Cowboy's as his home team, Shane reluctantly had to admit he was a New York Jet's fan.

Buck had laughed.

Personally, Book took this small admonition of fear as a better indicator of their growing friendship than the admission that he supported what was widely regarded as one of the worst teams in the league.

And so, when the nurses came to prep Schofield for surgery, they found the pair of them sitting with their heads bowed in front of the book. It had been a long time since Buck Riley had taught someone how to read but he still got the same sense of pride when Shane started to recognise letters, began to form words and even small sentences.

With practice, he would get better but Buck hoped he never had reason to.

With practiced ease, the nurses bustled in and whipped Shane out of his clothes. Despite their many offers of help, he insisted on tying the flimsy blue hospital gown himself. It was far too large on him and gaped at the back.

When Marilee demanded he lose his underwear, Schofield demanded another gown and made damn sure his 'skinny white ass' – as she said teasingly through her thick southern accent - wasn't showing before they wheeled him away.

"See you later," Shane said seriously, holding out a hand which Book shook solemnly.

"You'll be fine, kiddo," he replied and just before the orderlies pushed the bed passed him and out the door, Book ruffled Shane's short spikey hair.

He knew on one level, the affectionate gesture annoyed the shit out of Schofield but just this once, he tolerated it with a laugh and even a small smile.

"I'll see you later," he repeated and there was no way Buck could have missed the significance of the words.

Buck Riley had always been a particularly patient man and yet he found himself inexplicably jumpy for the nearly four hours that Schofield spent in theatre. After downing a grand total of seven cups of coffee in quick succession, which certainly did not help his jumpiness, he called Paula and his beautiful wife joined him at the hospital. The second she entered the small, sparse room however, she simply let out an exasperated 'humph' and dragged him down to the small park next door. Despite the large sign hanging over one of the park benches that proclaimed in bold letters,

NO SMOKING

Paula pushed a cigarette into his hand.
"Just the one," she said with a knowing look.

Book hadn't smoked in years – not since the scientists and Paula had discovered they were bad for you – but for crying out loud, he was a child of the sixties, back when cigarette smoke was like mother's milk.

And of all the things he had tried in his teenage years, cigarettes, he knew, were probably the least likely to kill him.

Lighting one was like riding a bike. Once you learnt, you'd never forget but unlike riding a bike, this was one skill he didn't want to teach his son. The lighter flickered and the end of the thin rod caught, flaring orange suddenly. As Book inhaled and the familiar bitter smoke filled his lungs, he felt his mind clear and his body relax. This park, he decided, was really a very lovely place and perfectly situated next to the hospital. They really should take advantage of it more; the fresh wholesome air would do the patients a world of good. When the results of Shane's surgery came through, he would bring him here no matter the outcome. For if the surgery was unsuccessful, then surely the birds' song, the melodic trickle of water from the small fountain and the rustle of the wind through the trees – not even mentioning the smell of fresh mown grass and just opened flower buds; or the feel of grass beneath his feet – would remind him of how much he still had left.

And if the surgery was successful, then the green of the grass and the blue of the sky, the miscellany of the flowers and even the dirty grey of the fountain with highlights of pigeon poo would never have looked better.

By the time the cigarette was burnt to his fingertips, savouring every last breath, Buck supposed that Schofield must have been nearly out of surgery and he wanted to be there waiting when he returned.

Because it wasn't like anyone else would.

In the end, he only just made it back there before Shane himself did and for all his desire to be there to support the kid, it was almost entirely wasted for Shane had absolutely no clue. He was practically still unconscious by virtue of the anaesthetic when the familiar rattle of the bed's wheels rang through the halls.

The bandages are back and Book can't help but feel relieved. If it's disconcerting to have half of the boy's face hidden, it's nothing compared to the shock of those scars. He'd become rather good at suppressing the inevitable wince that occurred every time Shane turned his head, looked at him, because he knew that Schofield would hear him and as of yet, he didn't know about them.

Buck let Shane sleep and though he tossed and turned and mumbled incoherently, this time it was the deep and thankfully peaceful sleep of the drug induced.
Whatever dreams Shane was lost in; they were surely a damn sight more pleasant – and probably far weirder, if the odd snatch of word that Book caught was anything to go by. He could have sworn he heard "elephant" followed not too far behind by "clouds" – than any he'd had before.

The doctor dropped in again briefly to impart the necessary details of the operation to Buck in his short, staccato manner.

As far as they could tell, the operation went well. The wounds were clean and healing nicely. The bandages would be removed in 24 hours and until then, there would be no indication of whether or not the operation had been successful.

And he left again, leaving Book to relay the details to Schofield when he came down from the ceiling, floating with the elephants.

Buck Riley had always been a patient man but the next twenty-four hours were shaping up to be some of the longest of his life.