We park outside of the biggest house on Maple Street. It has a huge white porch that seems to wrap around to the back and red brick siding. Next door is a small, blue house with a rope swing hanging from an oak tree.
“That little house is mine.” Ciara nods at it. “Six of us live in there, and Dr. Wilson lives all alone in the one next door.”
“You ever ask him if he wants to trade?”
She nods and laughs at this.
I put the car in park then turn to Anton. “Let’s get that big noggin of yours checked out.” I’m feeling much better now that we’ve made a decision about what to do.
“This is dumb,” Anton says. “I told you, I’m fine. I just need some sleep. And how do you know he won’t charge me?”
“He won’t,” Ciara says. “Trust me. He does this for people all the time. It’s what he does.”
Anton doesn’t move.
I look at him and say, “Get out. Or I’m dragging you out. We need you better before our next game.”
Anton looks down at his hands and then finally slides out of the truck. This knock to the head has made him even more dramatic than when he was complaining about the headache after Junior sacked him at practice.
Ciara rings the doorbell and Anton and I stand behind her. An older man with silver hair opens the door. He’s dressed in khaki pants, a dress shirt, and a blue blazer. He looks overdressed for a Friday night in this town.
“Ciara!” He sounds surprised. “Everything okay?”
“Dr. Wilson,” she says, nodding to us. “Can you look at my friend? I think he might have a concussion, and we’re not sure what to do.”
“Of course.” He looks over at Anton. “Come on in.”
We follow him into a large entry way. There is a duffel bag and a suitcase sitting near the door.
“I’m sorry,” Ciara says. “I forgot you’re leaving tonight.”
“I’ve got time.” Dr. Wilson dismisses the apology. “My flight doesn’t leave for a while.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Haiti,” he says. “I’m heading down there to volunteer in a small medical clinic for a few weeks.”
We walk through a living room and into a study that is set up like a doctor’s office. There is an exam table in the middle of the room. Behind it are shelves filled with medical books and framed degrees.
“How did you hit your head?” Dr. Wilson asks Anton as we help him onto the exam table.
Anton looks at me, and I realize he doesn’t even remember.
“A huge guy plowed into him at the end of our game,” I say. “He knocked Anton off his feet, and Anton hit the ground with the back of his helmet.”
“Hmm,” Dr. Wilson sighs. “What position do you play?”
“Quarterback,” Anton says, shifting uncomfortably on the table.
Dr. Wilson nods at this. “I played for the Warren Wolves too. But that was many moons ago.” He gives a crackly howl.
“What position did you play?” I ask.
“Wide receiver.” He beams with pride. “Took some big hits myself, but luckily nothing major.”
Dr. Wilson starts examining Anton. He looks at the back of Anton’s head.
“And you don’t remember this?” he asks Anton.
“I kind of do,” Anton responds hesitantly.
“How long was he out?” Dr. Wilson asks me.
“Maybe ten or fifteen seconds?” I say.
He shines a flashlight into each of Anton’s eyes and shakes his head.
“Your pupils are dilated,” he says.
He opens a cabinet on the other side of the room and takes out a stethoscope and listens to Anton’s heart and then checks his blood pressure, all while asking Anton a series of questions. Have you had headaches? Have you felt tired? Are you sensitive to light?
Anton answers yes to all of them.
“Well,” Dr. Wilson finally says, “I can’t confirm how bad it is without doing further tests with more equipment, but you definitely have a concussion.”