Nightmare Hour by R. L. Stine Page B

Mom said sadly, shaking her head.
    â€œHe thinks if he can convince us he’s not Martin, he won’t have to have the operation.”
    â€œAre you sure you’ve got the right kid?” Dad asked.
    The nurse nodded solemnly. “Yes, we’re sure. He’s Martin Charles. No matter how many times he says he isn’t.”
    â€œWhat kind of operation does he need?” I asked her.
    She brought her face close to my ear and whispered, “He has to have his left foot removed.”
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    Doctors and nurses were in and out of the room all afternoon. They explained for the hundredth time about how a tonsilectomy works and told me what to expect.
    Mom and Dad stayed until dinnertime. It was kind of hard to come up with things to talk about. I couldn’t stop thinking about Martin.
    Just the thought of having a foot cut off made my feet itch like crazy and my stomach clench into a tight knot.
    No wonder he was so terrified.
    After dinner it grew very quiet. I could hear a baby crying far down the hall. I heard phones ringing and nurses talking quietly outside the door.
    I tried to be brave. But I felt really alone with Mom and Dad gone.
    It’s Halloween, I thought. I shouldn’t be here. I started to picture ghosts and mummies and vampires floating silently down the hospital halls.
    I picked up a book and tried to read. But I couldn’t concentrate. I was alert to every hospital sound. I heard carts rattle down the hall. Whispered voices. The eerie bleep bleep bleep of some kind of machine.
    I shut the book. I can’t read. I have to talk to someone, I decided.
    I took a deep breath, pulled open the curtain, and said hi to my roommate.
    â€œI’m Sean Daly,” I said. “I’m having my tonsils out tomorrow.”
    He was sitting up in bed, reading a comic book. He turned the page, then stared at me. He had orange spaghetti stains on his chin from dinner.
    â€œYou’re Martin, right?” I said softly.
    He opened his mouth and shouted, “I’m not Martin!”
    â€œOh. Sorry.” I jumped back.
    Why am I such a stupid jerk? I asked myself. Why did I say that?
    I sat on the edge of my bed. The hospital gown rode up way over my knees. I tugged it down. I couldn’t get used to wearing the stupid thing.
    â€œYou into comic books?” I asked.
    â€œNot really,” he said. He tossed the comic to the floor. “Martin is into comic books. But I’m not.”
    â€œOh.” I swallowed. This guy is definitely weird, I thought.
    I couldn’t help it. I kept glancing at his feet. But they were under the bedsheet. I couldn’t see anything.
    â€œUh…where do you go to school?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t go to Martin’s school,” he said, eyeing me strangely. “I go to a different school.”
    Creepy. I wished I hadn’t started talking to him. But it was too late.
    â€œWhere?” I asked.
    â€œMiddle Valley,” he said. “It’s not bad.” He stopped staring at me and started to relax. We talked about our schools, and our brothers and sisters, and we talked about movies and sports.
    And we talked about how we were missing Halloween, cooped up in this horrible hospital. That got us started on what kinds of candy we liked.
    We were still talking when a nurse walked in at ten o’clock. “It’s your last chance for a glass of water, Martin,” she said.
    He pounded his fists on the bed. “I’m not Martin!” he cried. “I’m not having surgery!”
    â€œPlease--” The nurse frowned at him sternly. “Enoughof that, okay, Martin?”
    â€œI’m not Martin! I’m not Martin!”
    â€œWhatever,” she replied, rolling her eyes. She turned to me. “How about you, Sean?”
    â€œNo thanks,” I said quietly.
    She said good night and strode out of the room.
    I listened to her footsteps down the hall. Then I turned back to Martin.