Page 135 of Bulletproof

“Really?”

“Why are you giving me shit?”

“Sorry.”

He cleared his throat. “Your doctor thinks you’re between a D and a C.”

“I don’t wanna be an A?” I asked because that made no sense. A was always the best.

“No, you don’t, not in this case.”

“Okay.”

“But again, two months before all the swelling goes down and they can do an MRI or whatever and figure it all out.”

“So, I should just wait?”

“Yes.”

“And right now?”

“Right now, it’s like your legs don’t know they’re connected to the rest of you.”

“But my legs aren’t even hurt.”

“Love, you got hurt everywhere. You were checked out completely for two days, in and out of consciousness for another three, and healing now for another three. They also had to remove your spleen.”

The time I had been sleeping explained the beard he was sporting.

“We’re a matching set now. You don’t have a spleen anymore either,” I said with a cackle.

“Why is that funny?”

“Matching set,” I repeated, chuckling.

“You have bruised ribs, and your face and body are covered in bruises and⁠—”

“I get the idea.”

“But how you landed, in the mud, and because the whole side of the hill was wet and slick, the car sort of slid to a stop before it hit, and so the impact happened more in this sort of crumpling around the embankment and you—not on top of you, but more … God, Jory, you should have been crushed. All your bones should be broken. The firemen who cut you out came by to see you because they had no idea how you had come out of that in one piece.”

“Sam—”

“If you saw the pictures of the car⁠—”

“But I’m fine, except for the walking thing.”

“We don’t know about that yet.”

“How can it just magically fix itself?”

“It doesn’t magically do anything. It’s just your body healing and then either working or not.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“What’re you asking?”

“You know.”