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At University Hospital, Lamar roamed into Gunna's room unimpeded by security. Two days had passed and he contemplated what it would be like if he was in the hospital. He had no family to be by his side. Sure he had his street brothers but how effective would they be at questioning doctors and guaranteeing that he received proper care. Other than how to cause them, they had no idea about trauma caused by a gunshot wound.
Mrs. Robinson had told Lamar that Gunna's blood pressure had dipped to sixty over zero. He had no idea what that meant, other than his pressure was dangerously low.
Lamar walked into the room and observed Gunna hooked up to so many machines, he was visibly shaken. On the bright side, he was alive, albeit unconscious. He had a torn radial artery, collapsed a lung, and his own blood was poisoning him. In other words, his man was about to check-in to the Upper-Room; he had better hurry to be with God before the devil stamped his ticket for admittance into the gates of hell. He had definitely committed enough crimes to pay for a first-class ticket.
A doctor walked in and smiled at Lamar before grabbing a chart at the foot of the bed.
"What's up with his arm, Doc?" Lamar asked.
Gunna's arm was encased in an elastoplastic cast and hung in the air using a trapeze bar.
"Well, he was shot in the elbow and near the wrist which ripped through an artery. We're trying to heal the elbow, but the damage to the artery may render his arm useless. I'm assuming it was his shooting arm, so he'll need to stay out of the streets if you catch my drift." The doctor was tall, handsome, in shape, the kind of doctor that looked like the star of a TV one-hour drama.
Lamar furrowed his brows and leaned his head to the side.
"Don't look flustered," the doctor said. "He's been tested for gun residue. The levels were off the chart. Positive for cocaine and mary-joo-anna use, also." His eyebrows went up as if to say what now.
"Oh," Gunna said, and then foolishly added, "Self-defense."
"What a shame. Pennsylvania doesn't buy that. But, I guess," he said, putting the chart down after making a few markings.
"Hey, Doc, what's the problem?" Lamar asked deadpan.
At the door, he said, "You know, I'm tired of patching up young, black men that look just like me. Nothing major."
"That coming from the good doctor who grew up in white America and probably went to Yale. Miss me with that bullshit, Doc."
"You're wrong! For the record, I was orphaned at birth, because my crack addicted mother left me in the hospital to get a hit. I bounced from home to home, abused, starved, and at one point locked in the basement for hours by a white family. My sixth. I used a flashlight to do my homework in the cellar. Homework kept me out of the basement mentally. I studied an old, mildew-ridden set of encyclopedias down there. Through it all, I graduated from Harvard and John Hopkins. No one gave me anything. I earned my academic scholarship. I made me. I'm self-made. So miss me with the bullshit." He stared Lamar down for ten seconds, before he left the room with a sardonic smirk on his face.
Lamar slammed his body into a chair envious of the doctor. He continued to stare at the monitor that provided Gunna's temperature, pulse, EKG, and blood pressure readings. That could have been him. Still could be. Fortunately, it wasn't and until it was, he would exact revenge on the people responsible for Gunna's situation.
Business as usual. With reckless disregard for what the doctor had said.