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All in all, Dennis should have known better. Everyone knows that going out past midnight is just asking for trouble. But there he was, taking a midnight run because he couldn’t sleep–thoughts of disappointing his family and friends furiously bouncing around in his brain. Running had helped during his first few years of med school, so he figured he’d give it another try.
What Whitaker didn’t expect was that halfway through his run back to Santos’s place, he’d be stopped by a homeless man asking for money.
“Son, you got any spare change so I can get something to eat?” the man asked.
Whitaker hadn’t brought his wallet on his last-minute run—not that he had any spare change anyway–so he told the man as much.
“I’m really sorry, sir. I didn’t bring my wallet– this was just a last-minute run to clear my head. If I had it on me, I’d have gotten you something. Sorry again.”
Whitaker turned to continue his run back home when the man suddenly screamed out behind him.
“These ungrateful young’uns, not looking out for their elders! You’re gonna wish you helped me out, boy.”
Whitaker didn’t take a look back to see what the man meant, which was probably his first mistake. Because all of a sudden, he felt an immense pain in the lower left side of his back.
Whitaker placed his hand where he felt the pain, and when he pulled it away, his hand was covered in blood. The homeless man was already gone, probably ran as soon as he’d realized what he’d done.
Whitaker’s heart pounded in his chest as his breath quickened. His hand trembled as he took a few staggering steps forward. The pain in his back was sharp, searing, like a constant reminder of the wound. He looked around, but the street was empty–no sight of help, nothing.
The blood was soaking through his T-shirt, and panic seized over him. What the hell was going on? He couldn’t think straight. His first instinct was to call an ambulance, but he didn’t have his phone and just the cost of taking an ambulance to the hospital was sending him into a panic. He couldn’t wait for help either, who else would be stupid enough to be out this late like him.
Then, the thought of Robby’s house popped into his head. He’d been over there a few times for dinner, and it wasn’t more than 6 blocks away from the path he was on. Robby had always been there for him–always knew how to handle things, when Whitaker didn’t. Robby would be able to help him.
So there he was slowly making his way to Robby’s home, with each step, the pain in his back flared up again, but he forced himself to keep moving in fear of bleeding out.
Focus, Whitaker, Focus.
You have to make it to Robby’s. He kept repeating these three words to himself as he forced his legs to move forward, each step feeling heavier than the last.
It took 15 minutes too long, but by the time Whitaker stumbled up the steps to Robby’s porch, his legs felt like they were giving out on him. The whole world was a blur– streetlights and house light bleeding into one another.
He reached for the doorbell but missed it, his hand smearing blood across the wall beside it. He tried again, this time managing to push the button with the heel of his palm.
Nothing.
He rang it again, faster now, then started pounding on the door with his fist. “Robby!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Robby, it’s me, Dennis! I need–please–open the door!”
His knees buckled, and he caught himself on the frame just before collapsing. Pain screamed from his lower back, radiating outward in hot waves, vision tunneling.
The porch light flickered on. The door cracked open a second later, revealing Robby, barefoot in sweatpants, blinking sleep out of his eyes in confusion.
“Whit? What the hell–!”
“Robby, help me please, my back!”
That’s when Robby saw the blood. Whitaker’s shirt, soaked through.
“Oh my god,” Robby breathed, pulling the door open wider. “Jack get over here, help me get Whit inside!”
Whitaker heard the rapid stumbling of feet to the door, then hands on each of his sides carrying him into the house. They slowly set him on the couch, belly first.
When Jack asked, “Kidd, what happened?”, while Robby lifted up Whitaker’s shirt.
“Some homeless man stabbed me, when I told him I didn't bring my wallet to give him change.”
“What were you doing out so late, kid?” Jack asked.
Whitaker shut his eyes for a second. “Needed to clear my head. Too many unwanted thoughts floating around up there,”
Robby cut in, voice calm but tense. “Well, he got you pretty good. We’re gonna have to clean the wound and stitch you up.”
Whitaker nodded.
Abbott disappeared into the kitchen and came back a few seconds later with a small first aid kit, a bottle of whiskey, and a rolled-up towel. He placed the towel on the couch and knelt beside Whitaker.
“This is gonna suck kid,” he said plainly, unscrewing the whiskey cap and holding it out. “Drink.”
Whitaker grabbed the bottle with a shaky hand and took two long swings, Hopeful it would help with his oncoming panic attack. Robby pulled a lamp closer and tilted it down towards Whitaker’s back. “You’re lucky Whit,” he said inspecting the wound. “It’s deep, but only hit muscle, nothing vital, just a whole lot of blood.”
“Awesome,” Whitaker forced out, as Abbott dabbed antiseptic on the cut. It stung like hell, and he immediately jerked away.
“Hold still buddy,” Robby said, calm but firm. “I don’t want to do this twice.”
Robby readied the needle, while Whitaker tried to prepare himself for the unbearing pain, he knew he was going to feel. As soon as the needle went in, he bit down on the rolled up towel Jack had handed to him.
Whitaker tried to focus on Robby telling him what was happening, what kind of stitches he was doing, how deep, and how far apart, but the pain was too much. Jack must have seen it in his face, because he grabbed his hand and leaned close to his ear, telling him how great he was doing.
After a few more agonizing minutes, Robby tied off the last stitch and patted Whitaker gently on the shoulder.
“That’s it. You’re all sewn up, bud.”
Whitaker let the towel fall from his mouth and exhaled, long and shaky, and in a horace voice said, “Thanks, guys… really.”
Abbott sat back with a sigh. “Next time you wanna clear your head, give one of us a call. We all go through rough times. Lean on us when you need it.”
Now that all the adrenaline was leaving his body. Whitaker finally felt safe and completely exhausted. His eyes must have been starting to droop, because Robby gave a quiet laugh.
“Wait to sleep for just a sec, bud,” he said. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable first.”
Whitaker tried to protest, but just one look at both Jack and Robby shut him up.
So, Robby and Jack moved gently and carefully, each taking an arm under Whitaker’s shoulders as they helped ease him into a better position on the couch. They shifted pillows, laid a blanket over him, and carefully propped him on his side to avoid placing unnecessary pressure on the stitches.
“There,” Robby said softly. “That’s better.”
Whitaker barely managed a nod, his eyelids half-closed already. The pain hadn’t gone, but had turned into more of a dull ache.
Jack grabbed a pillow and tossed it to the floor, before brushing his fingers through Whitaker’s hair. “I’ll crash here,” he said. Then began lowering himself down onto the floor and stretching out with a groan. “If he needs anything in the middle of night, I’m right here.”
Robby followed suit, grabbing a folded blanket from his bed and spreading it out next to the couch. “Same here,” he said. “You’re not alone tonight, Whit.”
“Yeah, a sleepover!” Jack cheered.
Whitaker didn’t respond, but managed a small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.
The room quieted. The soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen. The occasional creak of the house settling.
Whitaker didn’t know what tomorrow morning may bring, or even the next week. But he knew that when surrounded by his friends and mentors that he’d be ok. Whitaker let the heaviness take him. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel so lost.