*** A week later.
"What do you mean you want to be discharged now?" The doctor asked, looking at the clipboard in his hand, and my disheveled self, my right arm in a full cast, which they've had to costly open up just to clean out the bullet wound. My side wound is almost healed, even though the stitches aren't out yet, which is probably the one that he'll use against my discharge.
"I mean what I asked." I shifted in the bed, smiling at the nurse who was walking in with my lunch, which I was ready to have about an hour ago. "Send me back in a wheelchair, but I need to go back." I reached for the glass of water, and he shook his head.
