We pull into the driveway. It sort of catches me by surprise that we’re home already. I’m thinking about one of things Dr. Redick said: “No structural damage.” That just seems so funny to me because the “structure” he’s talking about is my head!

By now, Mom and Dad have figured out that it’s mostly good news and are in a much better mood.

“It never really worked right in the first place,” Dad says to Mom in the front seat, still talking about my head.

“Nothing to be done at this point,” Mom says. “Maybe we should think about boarding school.”

Yeah, ha-ha-ha. Everyone is having fun now. I want to say, Hey! I got hit in the head here. But they’re just relieved. I can hear it in their voices. They’d been insanely tense, like seriously crazy, on the drive to the hospital.

“Home again, home again,” Dad says as the car comes to a stop.

Jiggedy jog, I think, because that’s the rest of it.

I get out and start up the walkway. I look at our yellow house, not big but not little. I look up at my bedroom window on the second floor. It feels like I’ve been away for a long time because so much has happened since I left.

I try to remember what games are on TV today and what snacks we have in the kitchen. Chips definitely, but I don’t know if we have any dip left. Then Nax appears in the window of the front door, barking and going crazy.

“Someone needs to be walked,” Mom says behind me. Normally, that would be my cue, but today she says, “I’ll take him.”

“Nah,” I say. “I’m fine.”

The TV can wait.

“Do you want to eat before or after?” Mom says once we’re inside.

“After,” I say, because I already have the leash out, and Nax goes into hyperdrive when that happens.

He bursts through the front door like a horse busts out of the gate at the Kentucky Derby. He doesn’t really settle down until we get to the Rail Trail behind our house. Then he comes up and rubs the gunk in the corner of his eye off against my pant leg and licks my hand.

“Hey, boy,” I say.

A bicyclist comes whizzing by, and I have to hold Nax back so he won’t cause an accident. Then it’s just the two of us for a while. The day still isn’t that warm, so I grabbed my favorite sweatshirt before I left. It was so big for me when I got it on vacation a few years ago, but now it fits perfectly and has been softened up by a hundred washes.

“Little chilly, huh?” I say, because, yeah, sometimes I talk to my dog. It’s not that I think he can understand all the words, but he can understand some words, like walk. And he can definitely tell when I’m happy or upset or whatever.

He looks back at me and then lets out one small bark, almost like a whoop. See? It’s like he agrees. His eyes are all over the trail, looking for squirrels.

“I got hit in the head, boy,” I say. “It hurt.”

It would be funny if he said ruff. He really does say that sometimes, but he doesn’t say anything now. He just looks back at me again. His eyes are big and wet and blank, so I go on.

“I guess it was dumb. I mean, the pitcher had zero control, and I didn’t even really think about that….”

But Nax isn’t listening anymore. He hasn’t seen a squirrel yet, and he’s getting antsy, pulling harder on the leash.

“Until I got hit,” I say, wrapping it up.

I touch the side of my head. It’s a little sore and a little swollen, just in that one spot. Tender, that’s the word. It feels a little tender.

Thank God for batting helmets. What if I hadn’t been wearing one? I picture the ball bearing in on me. No, not picture: I remember. I remember the ball coming straight for me, and I have to shake the thought out of my tender, stupid head. I need to forget about that.

Nax jerks on his leash, and I snap back to reality. “All right,” I say. “Let’s find you a squirrel.”

Nax jumps at the end of his leash. Squirrel is another word he knows.

“A fat gray squirrel,” I say, and he spins around in excitement.

Then he squats and takes a dump, so he can move faster, I guess. He doesn’t move off the paved part of the Rail Trail this time, so I reach into my pocket for the Baggie.