15

15

As I regain consciousness, my head wrapped tight in a bandage, my nose taped up and throbbing through the haze of pain medication dripping into my vein, I realize it’s my lucky day.

Not because I’m still alive.

Not because it could be worse.

It’s because of the kid. He’s the first thing I see as I take in the room. I can’t see my roommate, don’t know what particular brand of suffering he or she is afflicted with because of the drawn curtain between our beds. I hear the murmur of conversation drifting through that curtain and see a middle-aged woman in slacks and a sweater standing at the edge of the curtain with her hand on a little girl’s shoulder, and the shadow of what might be a man beside the bed. But none of them catch my eye like the acne stricken adolescent boy hanging out by the door. He has headphones around his neck and a Walkman in his hand.

Thankfully, it doesn’t hurt to turn my head. I look around my side of the room and spot my stained army jacket hanging on