Crash
The next few minutes make me glad I've never been a blusher. With my oldest and best friend, my ex-girlfriend, and no less than three staff looking on, the doctor examines me. He asks quiet questions, some of them threaten to brush up against the truth. But he doesn't say anything, just thumbs up my eyelids and flashes each pupil with a penlight that feels like he's stabbing needles into my brain.
"Sorry, Crash," he says, as if he means it, "but I need to make sure your pupils are responsive. Are you nauseated?"
"A little. It was worse when I first fell."
"Well, that's to be expected with the sudden movement. How's your head? How hard did you hit it on the bed?"
"It aches, but I didn't hit it hard. It just kind of bounced. On the railing."
