The Brave by Robert Lipsyte Page B

“I’ll make a bundle. I’ll send for you. We’ll have a tepee of our own.”
    He awoke to searing pain, to his own screams.
    â€œNurse!” shouted Brooks.
    A pinprick high on his arm, and he walks the wind again.
    Below, they run the trails and talk.
    â€œSonny hits you right,” said Jake, “you get up reeeal slow.”
    â€œTell me about it. Some left hand.”
    â€œThe best. And quick. But he won’t listen.”
    Sonny felt warm and safe, as if they were carrying him along the trail between them.
    â€œYou been training him?” asked Brooks.
    â€œSome. Had him down to a gym in Sparta. Did real good for a while. Then some jerk started giving him a hard time and Sonny wiped the floor with him.”
    â€œShort fuse,” said Brooks.
    â€œNope. Always been a real quiet kid, don’t say much, sneaks off to draw pictures, nobody supposed to know about that, and he lets himself get pushed around. Then, all of a sudden, look out.”
    â€œPassive-aggressive personality,” said Brooks.
    â€œEvil spirit,” said Jake.
    â€œYou believe that?”
    â€œEver see The Exorcist ? Like that, only an Indian spirit. Got to come out or it eats you up inside, destroys you. Once it comes out, it’s a hawk you can follow where you need to go.”
    â€œA hawk,” said Brooks. “Gimme a break.”
    â€œWhile it’s inside, make you crazy. Like what happened with that guard.”
    â€œThat wasn’t crazy—it was logical. To save his hair.”
    â€œNever cared about that before. Favored his white side.”
    â€œWhite side?”
    â€œFather was a white man. Killed in Vietnam. So they say.”
    Sonny tried to move closer to their voices. They were talking about his father. His mother always changed the subject when he asked about his father.
    The doctor pinched his big toe. “You were lucky, son. The tip of the knife was a millimeter from your heart.”
    Jake snorted. “Lucky wouldn’t of got cut a-tall.”
    The doctor chuckled politely. “So, you ready to get up and walk for me?”
    Two nurses swung his legs over the side of the bed. They had to lift him and support him. His legs couldn’t bear the weight.
    The pain amazed him, a scalding tidal wave. He gasped and lost his breath. The hospital gown was soaked with sweat and spotted withblood leaking out from the stitches that ran along his back and side.
    â€œThat’s it, that’s it,” cheered the nurses.
    â€œGo, boy,” said Jake.
    The doctor said, “Another step for me now, Sonny.”
    He did it for Brooks, who sat silent and stony faced in a corner, staring at him, willing him on. He wanted to stop, to sink back into bed, to get a shot that would send him painlessly back to the clouds, but Brooks’ stare was pushing him one shuffling step after another with a nurse’s shoulder under each armpit like a crutch, the bags of intravenous solution swinging overhead from the metal pipe rack. Keep going, young gentleman, show me there’s more to you than just hit and run.
    â€œAttaboy,” said Jake.
    â€œWay to go,” cheered the nurses.
    The doctor was talking to Brooks. “Strong kid. He beat the infection. Now we have to reverse muscle atrophy and the loss of lung and gut function. Ten days is a long time to be on your back.”
    Ten days, thought Sonny. It seemed like hours.
    â€œHe should be running in another ten days,” said Brooks.
    â€œWell, uh—” the doctor stroked his chin—“have to see how he progresses, um, talk about discharging him in a week or…”
    â€œBe out of here by Friday,” said Brooks. “Jake’ll have him on the road the following Monday. Easy mile to start.”
    â€œIsn’t he still technically, er, a prisoner?” asked the doctor.
    â€œDon’t sweat it, Doc,” said Brooks. “He is my prisoner.”
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