Packing Up

Tommaso

The doctor I vaguely remembered from the haze on Zahur’s lawn, Dr. Awad, checked the bandages on my shoulder, then my ribs.

“Your healing is progressing nicely,” she said.

I offered her a half-smile. “Nicely enough you’ll spring me from this joint?”

She chuckled. “I suppose.”

“Ha!” I started to punch the air in celebration, but Paige’s hold on my hand kept me anchored. A good thing, too. I’d probably have torn something and gotten another week inside. As nice as the hospital was—and it really was, rivaling some of the more prestigious places I’d seen in Philly—I was more than ready to get out of here. Hospital food could only sustain a man for so long.

Dr. Awad smiled indulgently. “That is, with a few conditions.”

I groaned and slumped back against my pillow. “What?”

She pulled out a sheet of paper covered in, thankfully, English. Paige took it before I could and studied the contents.

Dr. Awad addressed her instructions to Paige. “We’re sending you home with two medications, a