Grace Sisters’ Hospital, Boston—same time
Time for a run.
Johnny Givens stood at the end of the field, surveying the track. It was an old cinder-and-dirt affair, exactly a quarter mile, dating from the days that the grounds had belonged to a Catholic school. Never quite abandoned, it had recently been adopted by a local track club, whose members had smoothed out a decade’s worth of ruts and re-topped it with extremely fine gravel, donated by an area mining operation. It was even but hardly perfect, but that was fine as far as Johnny was concerned; he could run here without being bothered, and there would even be less shock to his stumps than on a “real” track.
Stumps. He was just getting used to the word.
“You don’t really think you’re going to be able to run this,” snarled Gestapo Bitch. She’d seen him in the hall and followed him out.
“I’ll walk it if I have to,” he told her.
“Are you trying to prove something?” she retorted. “You’re barely off the IV.”
Damn straight he was trying to prove something. Johnny took a breath, then leaned forward.
Suddenly he was running.
Not very fast, or very steadily. But with Gestapo Bitch watching him, he sure as hell wasn’t giving up.
The doctors were feeding him with some serious medicine, steroid concoctions, and a shelf full of vitamins. He was their guinea pig. But that was fine by him.
His heart pounded as he took the first turn. The weight on the side of his head grew. His arms weren’t keeping up with his legs.
The left one gave way. Johnny collapsed to the ground, face-first.
Damn! Damn!
Why does God hate me? Why is he doing this to me? Why?
Johnny pounded the ground. Tears rolled down his face.
Why?!
“I told you,” snickered Gestapo Bitch.
He slipped again getting up. Tiny stones were embedded in the palms of his hands. The front of his shirt was covered with dirt.
Run. Run!
Unsteady, he took a step to find his balance, then began running again.
More a trot, but he had to move.
Why is God doing this to me?