Warm
by  Sevenstars


DISCLAIMER: This is an original fan story based upon the characters and situations created in the TV series, Early Edition.  No profit is made from it and no infringement upon any copyright held by any individual or organization is intended.

RATING: PG (mostly for hospital stuff).

SPOILERS: "Frostbite."

WARNINGS: None.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A Missing Scene from "Frostbite."  (And in case you wonder, yes, this is in the same Universe as "Wounded.")

Information about hypothermia and its treatment obtained at http://www.webmd.com  and http://www.hypothermia-ca.com/hypothermia_publications/protocol.htm .

~~~~~~~
Warm
by Sevenstars

"Cat?  No, I didn't see a cat, why'd you ask?"

Gary thought fast.  "There was one in the ductwork, I followed it out.  I guess it was a stray or something, the building's probably full of rats, but I kinda figured I owed it my life...I'd like to give it a home if it turns up."

"Sorry," said the cop.  "Can't help you."

The ambulance--the first ambulance, Chuck's ambulance--lurched into motion with a growl of its siren.  "Where are they taking him--I mean, them?" Gary asked.

"Cook County, where else?"  The cop squinted at him measuringly.  "You want to go?"

Gary sighed.  "Yeah.  The other guy--not the kid, the older one--he's, he's my best friend.  I don't know what he was doing down here, but I think I should be with him.  I mean, I could call some of his family, but at this hour--"

"Get in," the cop invited, and started around the front of the car.

"Thanks."  Gary opened the back passenger door and slid in.  The cruiser was close and fusty with the ghosts of unpleasant old smells only half masked by some kind of cleanser--he remembered Crumb telling him once that cruisers smelled bad because drunks threw up in them--but it was also blissfully, deliciously warm, with the heater on full blast and filling the interior with the waste heat off the engine.  Gary loosened the buttons on his jacket, pulled off his gloves and untucked his muffler.  This was even better than McGinty's had been this morning.

Marissa was right, he thought, reminded of his friend by the memory of the bar that had become a second home to the three of them.  And, with wry self-mockery: She usually is, about the Paper.  It did need me to be in that place--those places--at that time--those times--so I'd keep running into Tony.  If I hadn't...

And if Chuck hadn't come down here, Tony might still not have made it.  I'd have had to find a phone...at this hour, in this part of town, that would be like looking for the needle in the haystack...but the ambulance was here for him, and the paramedics, and this cop...

What in the name of anything was he doing out at this time of night, least of all right where I was?  I mean, I know three A.M. is nothing to Chuck, there are times he doesn't go to bed at all--I don't know how he does it, let alone with that high-pressure job where he has to be on his toes every minute--but still...


The cruiser jerked forward and came around in a tire-screeching swirl as the cop hit the siren and the revolving light.  Gary made himself as comfortable as he could and settled back to enjoy the ride--and the heat.

***

Cook County Hospital was the jewel of Chicago's tough South Side, a publicly funded institution with the nation's first trauma center, initially set up in 1966, where hundreds of doctors now working in ER's all over the country had trained, getting all too much practise with victims of shootings and other assorted mayhem.  If you'd been shot, stabbed, or injured in some horrific accident anywhere in the Metro Chicago area, you came here by ambulance and received the best trauma care in the world; the TV series ER was inspired by the place.  Hypothermia definitely qualified as trauma, so Cook County was still humming even at quarter past three in the morning, chiefly with homeless people scraped off the frigid January streets by the ever-vigilant CPD, plus a few elderly and small children, primarily from the poorer parts of the city where apartment heat was likely to be problematical.

The cruiser, being nimbler than the ambulances, pulled up to the emergency entrance only seconds after them.  Gary was out the back almost before the cop had hit the brakes, running to the two vehicles to watch as Tony and Chuck's gurneys were unloaded, then jogging inside after them, listening to the EMT's fire off vitals at the staff who came to meet them.  He paused, hesitating, as the patients were hurried into treatment cubicles.  His natural instinct was to try to be with Chuck, but Tony was alone and would have no advocate except for himself.

A nurse solved his dilemma for him as she hurried to his side with a clipboard.  "Are you with either of these patients, sir?"

"I, I guess I'm with both of 'em, actually," Gary admitted.  He glanced at the name tag pinned to her sweater; it read Amanda Baranowski, RN .  "What, what do you need to know?"

"The paramedics said we have two males, one early thirties, one about sixteen," said Nurse Baranowski, glancing at the notes on her board.  "We ought to get parental permission to treat for the younger one--are you a relative?"

"Uh, no, not really, I, I was just the one who found him.  His name's Tony--Anthony--Benoit.  He's got grandparents in Arizona, I'm not sure where, but he was awake and talking when they put him in the ambulance, so he should be able to tell you all that himself, if he's willing to.  Only you, you want to handle him kinda carefully, he's been living on the streets since he was twelve."

"I'll inform one of our psych staff," the nurse assured him, making a note of it.  "Thank you, that's very important.  What about the other one?"

"His name's Charles Fishman, but he likes to be called Chuck.  He was thirty-two on November 27.  He's got Blue Cross--the card should be in his wallet.  He's Reformed Jewish but not especially observant.  And, and he's my best friend, so can you keep me up to date on how he's doing?"

"As soon as I know something," she promised.  "Why don't you have a seat?"

Gary hadn't planned or expected to fall asleep, least of all in the notoriously uncomfortable hospital chair, but after the day he'd had it was probably inevitable that he did, especially given the toasty warmth of the hospital.  He had scarcely peeled out of his jacket before he dozed off.  He woke with a start when something touched his knee.  "Huh?  Wha's'at?  Who?"

A woman with warm brown skin and large dark eyes was sitting in the chair beside his own, smiling tolerantly, holding a clipboard against her breasts.  "I'm Dr. Silea," she said, a musical Hispanic lilt in her voice.  "The desk told me you came in with the two hypothermia cases?"

Gary pulled himself up in the chair, wincing as his back protested.  "Uh, yeah, yeah, I did.  Gary Hobson," he offered, extending his hand.  They shook.  "How, how are they doing?"

"Well, it was a close call for both of them," Silea told him.  "What we define as severe hypothermia.  The young man--Tony Benoit?--wouldn't have lasted much longer if he hadn't been brought in when he was."

"Yeah, I, I kinda figured he was slippin' away from me," Gary admitted.  "He was gettin' sleepy, sayin' he felt warm...I grew up in small-town Indiana, I know a little bit about what it's like to freeze to death.  But you, you got him warmed up?"

"We're working on it," said the doctor.  "It takes a while in these cases; hypothermia patients have to be kept under total physiologic control and the temperatures of all devices, fluids, and gasses used for rewarming need to be closely monitored.  And you have to treat them very gently--a cold heart is especially prone to cardiac arrest, and even cautious movement can induce it.  It doesn't help that he has low body fat and was probably malnourished.  But we've got him stabilized, and he's gone upstairs for further treatment."

"What about his leg?" Gary asked, pushing himself stiffly to his feet.  "He was pinned under this chunk of pipe--"

"Yes, the paramedics told us that.  Well, as far as that goes, he was remarkably fortunate; nothing was broken.  He's bruised right down to the bone; he's going to turn all sorts of colors over the next week or so, he'll be in a fair amount of pain and he'll have to keep his weight off the leg, but he won't have to be casted.  He doesn't have a lot of feeling in it yet, but that's partly because of the hypothermia."

"That's good," said Gary.  "Did he, were you, I mean, what about his grandparents?"

"He gave us a name and phone number," Dr. Silea told him.  "We don't usually get such ready co-operation from street people--I don't know what you said to him, but it must have made an impression.  We'll wait a while before we call them--Arizona's an hour behind us, they probably wouldn't even hear the phone this early.  Now, about Mr. Fishman--"

"Chuck?"  Something clutched at Gary's heart, and he felt instantly guilty for not having asked after his friend first.  "Is he--"

"Conscious and coherent, able to respond and give us a brief history.  He was more directly exposed to the cold than Mr. Benoit was, so he suffered a more severe form of hypothermia--indications included staggering gait, slurred speech, slow, shallow breathing, slow irregular heartbeat, and brief unconsciousness--plus some mild frostbite, primarily to his nose, ears, and cheeks.  He also uses caffeine, which causes narrowing of the blood vessels to the extremities, making them more prone to feel cold."

"Yeah," said Gary.  "He grinds his own beans.  He's proud of it."

"Is he under a good deal of stress?" Silea asked.

"Well, yeah.  He's a stockbroker.  It's a high-pressure job.  Why?"

"It's another risk factor, like the caffeine, and the two of them together explain why the cold hit him as hard as it did.  Chronic stress can cause the body to pump out a large amount of adrenalin, which also causes narrowing of the blood vessels.  And, like Mr. Benoit, he's slight, with low body fat.  Fortunately he was well provided with fuel--he told us he'd ordered out some Chinese just before he headed outside--and that helped counteract the risk factors.  And he says he doesn't smoke; nicotine's another blood-vessel constrictor."

"Is he, is he gonna be okay?"

"He'll be fine.  As soon as we get him warmed up you can take him home.  Would you like to see him?  He was asking for you."

"Yes, I, I'd like that very much."

"Walk with me, then," Silea invited.  "I want to give you a few pointers about post-traumatic care; people who've been through his kind of ordeal often don't pay very much attention to what we tell them to do.  First, about the frostbite," she began as they set off toward the elevators, Gary curbing his long stride to match her own pace, his jacket folded over his arm.  "Frostbitten skin may be more sensitive after the cold injury.  The injured skin area should be protected with sunscreen and protective clothing, depending on the climate and weather conditions, to prevent further damage.  Home treatment may help decrease pain and itching, prevent infection, and promote healing.  Mr. Fishman should apply aloe vera or another moisturizer, such as Lubriderm or Keri Lotion, to his damaged skin, and reapply it often.  There's not much he can do to stop it from peeling--it's part of the healing process--but the lotion may make it feel better.  If his eyes feel dry or sore, he can use nonprescription artificial tears warmed to body temperature.  Has he ever been told to avoid nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory medications?  Ibuprofen, Naproxen, Ketoprofen, aspirin?"

"Uh, no, not that I ever heard of," Gary replied.  The elevator dinged as it reached their floor and the doors folded open to admit them.

"Good, then he can use any of those, or acetaminophen--that's Tylenol or Panadol to you laymen--to help relieve his pain, and he is likely to have some pain.  You, or he, should watch and make sure no blisters or signs of skin infection develop; if they do, he should see a doctor immediately.  And he'll need to protect himself from further cold exposure and from bruising to the affected parts.  He may find that gently wrapping his toes in soft, dry material, like gauze, is helpful there; feet always seem to be the first thing that get hit by the effect."

"My dad always thought that was because cold air sinks, so your feet are closest to the coldest of it," Gary observed.

"And the ground does hold onto the cold, especially when it's paved," Silea agreed.  Another ding heralded their arrival at the intermediate-care floor.  "Now, I want you to be aware that his appearance may scare you a bit.  It's no worse than Mr. Benoit, but you're not going to see Mr. Benoit, and you say Mr. Fishman is your best friend, so it's going to hit you harder than it would if he were a comparitive stranger.  He's being ventilated with oxygen heated to a hundred and eight Fahrenheit and humidified, he's hooked up to a heart monitor, and he's getting IV's--320 cc's per hour of Ringer's lactate for rehydration, Narcan and 50% dextrose for the altered consciousness.  He's also got a urinary bladder catheter with a thermistor--he gave us a little static about that," she added, and Gary grinned briefly in sympathy.  "We can't do pulse oximetry, it tends to be unreliable in these cases, so the nurse will be in and out, checking on him.  But since he's conscious, we haven't bothered with nasogastric or endotracheal intubation.  And we didn't get any v-fib, thanks chiefly to the police having called the ambulance so quickly, which means we haven't administered bretylium/lidocaine.  He's had a chest X-ray, urinalysis, ten kinds of blood test, and a check of his arterial blood gasses.  It all went a good ways toward wiping him out, and between that and the aftereffects of exposure he may not make a lot of sense--"

"Chuck doesn't make a lot of sense a lot of the time," said Gary.  "It's part of his charm.  Did you have time to do all that?  I didn't realize I'd been asleep so long."

"Oh, we're very fast workers here," Silea assured him with a smile.  "We're rather famous for it, after all--and proud of it too, like Mr. Fishman and his fresh-ground coffee."  Gary couldn't help smiling at the joke.  They stopped in front of a numbered door.  "He's in here.  Remember, he's been through the mill, so don't tire him.  I'll have them page me when he's ready to be released."

"Thanks, Doctor," said Gary quietly, and watched her walk briskly away before hesitantly turning to the door and reaching for the handle.

The room was a double, but Chuck was the only patient in it at present.  As Dr. Silea had warned, there was a lot of equipment crowded around his bed, including a gently beeping ECG, and various IV leads plugged into his arm and the back of his hand.  A clear ventilator mask was secured over his nose and mouth; there was nothing helping him to breathe, but the warm, rich, humid oxy-mix was being pumped steadily into him by one of the machines.  He still looked rather pale, but he was breathing easily, his eyes closed, and at first Gary thought he was asleep.  Crepe-soled winter boots silent against the tile floor, he moved to the bedside and stood looking down at his friend.  For some reason Chuck looked small and frail in the white-blanketed hospital bed; so much of what made him who he was came from the bright, often manic air he displayed to the world.  Gary was enough of a country boy to know that he'd stood a very real chance of losing Chuck for good.  It frightened him to think of a world without Chuck--annoying, overdramatic, self-absorbed and neurotic though he could be.  For the first time in many years he realized how long Chuck had been a part of his life; so long, now, that he almost couldn't remember a time they hadn't been together.  So few people in today's world got to have one friend for that long, the way people moved around these days.  I've been lucky, Gary thought.  I should let him know that I know that.

He located a chair and placed it quietly beside the bed, then settled into it and leaned forward into the cone of light cast by the bedhead lamp.  "Chuck?  Hey, buddy, you there?"

Chuck's eyelids flickered, then opened fully.  He blinked a couple of times, then homed in on the familiar face not far above his own.  "Hey, Gar."  Besides being muffled by the plastic oxy mask, his voice sounded even more hoarse than usual, and Gary wondered if it was an aftereffect of the hypothermia.  "You okay?"

"I think I'm the one who should be asking that question," Gary told him.  "Yeah, I'm fine.  What about you?"

"You don't wanna know," Chuck griped.  "I hate hospitals."

"I don't think anybody much likes 'em," Gary observed.  "You remember what happened?"

"Yeah."  Chuck licked his dry lips and swallowed.  "You were in trouble as usual, ya big shlub.  Took old Chuck to pull your chestnuts outta the fire..."

Gary's brows drew together.  "You knew I was in trouble?  How?"

"Paper," said Chuck.  "Cat brought it.  I was finishing up some Chinese and all of a sudden there he was lickin' up the sweet and sour chicken.  That animal's real good at sleight of paw, ya know that?  I don't know how he got the Paper under the cartons, but there it was."

"The Paper?" Gary echoed.  "The Paper?  Tomorrow's?  Cat brought it to you?"

"Quarter till two in the morning, there he was," Chuck agreed.  "You made the front page, buddy.  You were gonna freeze to death, you and some kid.  Couldn't let that happen..."

That's why he said, "Told you I'd save you," Gary told himself.  He didn't realize I'd gotten out on my own--well, kind of.  He thought the police or the paramedics had found me.

But Cat...?  "Did you bring Cat with you?"

Chuck blinked. "No, why would I do that? Last I saw him he was  scarfin' down vegetable fried rice and egg drop soup at your place.  I hitched a ride as far as some all-night biker club on West 89th,  then I hoofed it the rest of the way."
 
 Twelve blocks in this weather, Gary thought. I can't believe he  made it. "You did good, pal. I wouldn't have thought you had it  in you."
 
 "Hey, I'm skinny, but I'm tough," said Chuck. "Just 'cause I sit  behind a desk all day doesn't mean I don't got what it takes."
 
 "Anybody ever says you don't, you send 'em to me and I'll set 'em  straight in a hurry," Gary promised. But inwardly he was still  struggling to deal with the implications of Chuck's experience.  I burned the Paper. I saw it catch. It was in flames when I tried  to recover it, to get the details about where Tony was going to die.   Throwing it away is one thing, but I burned it. How...?
 
And the Blackstone's at least fifteen miles from the warehouse. If  Chuck didn't bring Cat with him, how did Cat get in to find me? I  know it was Cat, I know that caterwaul of his.

A momentary panic knocked at his heart.  The Paper must have given the address of the warehouse, that was how Chuck had known where to go.  But he'd probably have brought it with him, the way Gary himself always did, so he could check the details, whatever they were, and make sure the story didn’t change.  What if the hospital staff had found it while they were getting him out of his clothes?  If they'd seen...?  "Chuck, the Paper--where is it?"

"Dunno," Chuck admitted sleepily.  "Inside my coat, I guess, that's where I put it when I ran out of your room."

Gary looked around, eyes searching the shadows that clustered just beyond the harsh hospital light, finally locating a couple of vague bulky shapes between the bed and the nightstand.  Reaching out an arm, he snagged them and drew them into the light.  As he'd hoped, they were the big white plastic shopping bags labelled Patient's Belongings, with the name C. Fishman and the number of the room written just beneath in black marker.  On impulse he opened the heavier one first; as its weight had suggested, Chuck's long Italian black leather coat was folded on top.  He dug underneath it, finding only his friend's gloves, muffler, beret and shoes, then pulled it out and began groping in the pockets and sleeves.  Nothing.  No Paper.  Stuffing the coat carelessly back into the bag, he turned to the other one, which proved to contain Chuck's pajamas, gaudy kimono-sleeved bathrobe, bulky fisherman's sweater, and thick socks, his watch and wallet and keys.  Still no Paper.  "It's not here.  Somebody must've taken it."

"Now why would anybody do that?" Chuck asked.  "It's just a paper."

"It's not 'just a paper,' it's tomorrow's Paper!  What if they see, if they find out, if they figure it out like we did?  Chuck--"

"Hey."  Chuck's expression was suddenly solemn.  "Cool it, big guy.  If anybody'd realized what it was, I think I'd know, don't you?  I mean, it's not the kind of thing you keep quiet about the first time you understand what you've got, is it?  I think the whole ER would'a heard from whoever realized what they had hold of.  I got a feeling the Paper can take care of itself.  It's probably back at your place by now, or wherever it goes when you're finished with it.  After all, there'll be a new issue out pretty soon..."  He yawned.

Maybe he's right, Gary thought.  If someone on the staff had noticed the date--and odds are pretty good they didn't; why would they even bother to look at it?--wouldn't they have said something?  Even just 'what the hell'?  More likely they thought it was yesterday's and threw it away because they knew today's would be coming out soon.  That's if it was even still in his coat by the time they put him in the ambulance.  If it can appear in a vending machine just in time for me to spot it, it can probably disappear just as easily.

I wonder if I'll ever get a handle on all the things it does?


It suddenly occurred to him how very much of an impulse thing Chuck's decision to "ride to the rescue" must have been.  He clearly hadn't stopped to get fully dressed, the way he had before he left his condo yesterday; he'd just pulled on his socks and sweater over his sleepwear, then thrown on his coat and boots and hit the door.  And Gary also vaguely remembered Chuck yelling hoarse recriminations at his back--something about his goldfish, Gary thought, though he didn't really understand what the problem was--as he charged out of the room after dropping in to see whether the paper had come back.  Chuck often had a tendency to sound annoyed, but there'd been a note in his voice--  "Chuck?"

"Mmm?"  Chuck's eyes were drifting closed again, but he lifted his lids and looked promptingly at his friend.

"Is there something...I mean, did I do something to make you mad at me?  I know I was kind of in a hurry the last time I saw you, but you seemed to be upset..."

The blue eyes widened suddenly.  "Didn't you know?" Chuck squeaked.

"If I knew I wouldn't ask," Gary pointed out.  "I can't try to make it right if you don't tell me about it."

Chuck frowned under the mask--not an angry frown but a thoughtful one, as if he were replaying their last exchange in his cold-addled mind.  "It...it was Sparky," he said slowly.  "I...I had to put him in the toilet 'cause I dropped your bathroom glass, and then I got all tangled up with trades and clients and Inga and forgot him, and you flushed him away.  I...I guess you didn't see him, but--but I was so hurt and mad...I thought you'd done it on purpose because you didn't like me takin' your place over."

"Aw, Chuck."  Gary reached out and gingerly laid his hand on his friend's skinny shoulder, remembering Silea's warning about incautious handling.  "You're right, I didn't see him.  I never knew he was there.  And, and I thought you knew I'd never be that, that petty, to take out my feelings about you on an innocent little fish.  It wasn't Sparky's fault he was in the toilet.  I'm sorry.  I know you, you were fond of him."

"He was the only thing in my life that never made any demands," Chuck whispered.  "He never expected me to be anything except what I am.  He couldn't...couldn't love me the way a dog or cat would, but he...he was something alive that I could care about, that needed me."

"I'm sorry," Gary apologized again.  "I should have stopped to listen to you, to find out why you were so upset.  It was just, well, I'd gotten so sick of being out in the cold, I threw the Paper on a fire some homeless guys had built, and then a little scrap of it came flying out with a headline about a kid who was gonna freeze to death...I tried to salvage the rest of it and I couldn't, but I thought, I thought maybe it would turn up back in my room, 'cause I'd found it down in the lobby once already.  I was so worried about the kid, about trying to save him, I didn't pay any attention to you.  That wasn't right, it wasn't being much of a friend.  I could hear you were angry; I should have taken a minute to listen and find out why."  He squeezed Chuck's shoulder once, gently, reassuringly.  "And I need you, buddy.  Like I needed you tonight.  And, and it means a lot to me that even though you were mad about your fish, you didn't hesitate to come after me."

"Hey," said Chuck with a faint smile.  "A goldfish is only a goldfish, but a good Gary Hobson is a friend.  To paraphrase Kipling.  I wouldn't be able to find another one of you at Silent World Tropical Fish."

Gary grinned, lightening the mood.  "I hope not.  I don't think I'd be very comfortable in one of those little tanks."

"Funny thing," Chuck went on drowsily.  "I was throwin' my stuff on, gettin' ready to come after you, and I could'a sworn I heard a voice.  Guess it was nerves or something."

"A voice?"  Gary echoed.  "What kind of voice?"

"Man's voice.  Kinda rough and twangy, like from Kentucky or Missouri or down Cairo way.  It said something like, 'Now you're ready to deal with someone else's Paper, at least in an emergency...you'll do the right thing.' "  He snorted softly.  "Had to've been nerves.  I mean, you weren't there, and I know the cat doesn't talk..." 

I'm not taking any bets on that, either, Gary told himself.  "Hey.  Thanks, Chuck.  I know being a hero is kind of out of your line, but...well, I really appreciate it that you'd risk freezing to death to come help me."  And apparently he didn't check past that first page, or he'd be champing at the bit to get to OTB or the office and start making some money off it...maybe that's what this 'voice' meant.

"Hey, like you said after that fiasco with Pritchard, that's what friends do, right?  They bail each other out.  Didn't figure anybody else was in a position to do it...that just left old Chuck to save the day."

"You did," Gary assured him quietly.  I won't tell him about Cat leading me out.  I'll let him think he did what he went there to do.  After all, if I encourage him enough, maybe he'll learn to be a little less selfish and stop pestering me for the market news and the scores...  "You saved my life.  Saved the kid's, too."  And that's true enough--like Dr. Silea said, if he'd been any later getting here, if I'd had to find help myself--

"What kid was it, or do I want to know?" Chuck asked.

Gary shrugged.  "Long story short.  Homeless kid, ran away from his grandparents' home in Arizona about four years ago, ended up here.  He was using that old warehouse as a den, had a fire for warmth, but a piece of duct pipe fell on him and pinned him, and then right after I found him a bunch of debri blocked the door to his hidey-hole and trapped both of us.  I couldn't get any of it moved by myself, but the paramedics did."

"Yeah," Chuck agreed.  "Yeah, Paper said you were--you would'a been--found in some kind of utility room...you'd think a kid from Arizona would know enough not to try to spend the winter this far north, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe," Gary paraphrased Marissa, "he needed to be here.  So he'd meet me, so I could talk him into at least getting in touch with his grandparents and talking about going home."  Something else suddenly occurred to him.  "You don't suppose...?"

"What?"  Chuck's eyes opened wider at the note in his voice.

"You don't think...maybe someone, something, put the fix in with the heat in your building, do you?  If you hadn't been at my place, even if Cat had brought the Paper to yours...you'd have had that much further to go, it might have made all the difference.  That's if Cat knows where you live, not that I'd put it past him."

"Whoo-hoo," said Chuck.  "You're gettin' into some really deep stuff, buddy.  Think I hear Twilight Zone music..."

"This whole Paper thing is strictly from the Twilight Zone," Gary muttered, and then, louder: "Still...I'm glad you cared enough to come for me.  Thanks again."

Chuck grinned a sleepy, lopsided grin under the oxygen mask.  "So how 'bout you show your appreciation with a few good stock tips?"

"Oh, no," said Gary.  "Remember the trouble you got into the last time?  No tips."

"Lottery number, maybe?" Chuck suggested.  "Lotto?  Even Pick Four?"  His eyelids drooped.  "Even St. Bernard dogs get...a good feed...after they come in...with a guy they've dug out'a the snow..."  His voice trailed off and his breathing changed rhythm slightly. 

He's asleep, Gary realized, and probably just as well.

But I never realized just how far he'd go for me.  Farther than a lot of friends might, I think.  More like...what a brother would do, maybe.

It's a good feeling, knowing there's somebody who cares that much.  It's nice.  Warm.

Guess I'll stay till he wakes up again...


End


Email the author: sevenstars39@hotmail.com
 
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