Table of Contents 18 страница

“Hello, Ryan,” Jordan said, quietly.

I swallowed a gasp. I knew that name. Jordan had mentioned it often enough during the last couple of months. Ryan Dupont had been Mikey’s best friend. The three of them had hung out together, and it had been at Ryan’s party where Jordan had gotten drunk that night—the night where his old life ended, the night he’d killed his brother.

I didn’t know who the other guys were and I’m not sure Jordan did either, but tension radiated from him, and his body was rigid.

I glanced around desperately, but no one was coming to our aid. Not this time.

My mouth had gone dry and I tried to swallow but I couldn’t even work up enough saliva to spit.

“Why the fuck did you have to come back?” snarled Ryan. “Isn’t it enough that you killed my best goddamn friend? You have to come back here and rub our noses in it?”

Jordan spoke calmly and reasonably, but his muscles were bunched under his t-shirt, and his voice was tight.

“I’m on parole, Ryan. I have to stay in the area.”

“You piss on his grave every time you fuckin’ breathe! You don’t deserve to live!”

I gasped and my grip on Jordan’s arm tightened, but he didn’t move.

“I know,” Jordan said, a quaver in his voice that tore at my heart. “I don’t deserve to live. But I am livin’. For some reason I’m still here, and all I can do is try to deserve that gift and…”

“Bullshit!” Ryan shouted. “He was the best, you piece of shit! You’re a fuck up and a murderer! And here you are, struttin’ around on our streets with your ho!”

“You don’t get to badmouth my girlfriend,” said Jordan, his voice dangerously quiet. “Say what you like about me, but leave her out of it.”

“Come on, Ry,” said one of the other men who seemed slightly more sober. “We don’t disrespect women. Let’s just clean up the trash.”

“Shut the fuck up!” shrieked Ryan, his eyes bulging with anger. “You don’t tell me what to do! No one tells me what to do!”

I had a bad feeling about this—a really bad feeling. This guy was totally amped and it didn’t sound like anything or anyone was going to talk him down.

He looked directly at Jordan. “You’ve got a debt to pay, you fuck!”

Jordan didn’t blink. “I’m not gonna fight you, Ryan.”

“You fuckin’ pussy! I’m not givin’ you a choice! You’ve been hidin’ all summer and you’re gonna pay for what you did!”

“I’m not hidin’ from anyone,” Jordan said, thickly. “I’m right here. Fuck’s sake, man! You and me were friends! You think I don’t miss him? Christ! He was my brother! ”

Ryan shook his head. “You’re walkin’ the streets like nothin’ ever happened. You haven’t even started to pay.”

I couldn’t stand by and listen to that shit anymore.

“He pays! God, he pays! Every day!” I yelled. “You have no idea what he’s been through. He even tried to kill himse-”

“Torrey, that’s enough!” Jordan snapped.

The second he was distracted, Ryan swung. He was a big guy, built like a linebacker, and his punch was solid. At the moment he raised his hand, I saw sunlight glinting off of a large ring—a class ring. I cried out as his fist connected with the side of Jordan’s face, knocking him from his feet.

“Stop it!” I shrieked, but my words had no effect.

Ryan launched a kick at Jordan’s ribs as he lay on the ground, but he managed to roll away. Then the second guy, the one wearing cowboy boots, started on him and all Jordan could do was curl into a ball and try to protect his head. I heard him grunt as kicks and punches rained down on his back, but he never spoke.

I threw myself at the guy with the boots and hooked an arm around his neck, scoring my fingernails across one cheek.

He squealed like a pig and cursed, crashing backwards against the wall of the bank, winding me so I was gasping for breath and forced to let go.

I was screaming and crying, and I could see people start to approach us, but they were too slow, too wary, and too far away.

Jordan was on his feet, and I could see the anguish on his face as he tried to get to me. Blood was pouring from a cut on his cheek caused by the ring, and the side of his face was masked in scarlet. He held one arm across his ribs, and it seemed like he was having trouble breathing.

He was still staring at me when Ryan hit him again. He hadn’t even tried to defend himself. I screamed as Jordan stumbled over the curb and flailed his arms to get his balance. Boots and Baseball Cap punched him to the ground. I tried to reach him but the fourth guy, the one with the leather jacket, grabbed me by my waist and hauled me off bodily.

Jordan had managed to stand, and I could hear him calling my name, concern coloring his voice.

I think I screamed again and struggled to get free, but Leather Jacket pinned my arms and twisted his legs to the side so I couldn’t kick him.

The crowd was getting nearer, but still no one tried to stop the murderous assault.

Ryan hit Jordan again and he went down.

I was begging them to stop but they wouldn’t. I don’t even know if they heard me, they were so crazed with bloodlust, anger and booze.

Boots and Baseball Cap held Jordan up by his arms while Ryan hit him again and again: ribs, stomach, face, ribs, stomach, face, in a sickening tattoo of knuckles on skin.

“Stop! Please, stop!” I begged, tears and snot and spittle covering my face.

More people were coming out of the shops and café to watch; a few were slowing down in their cars, but no one came to help us. No one came to help him.

A blow to Jordan’s head stunned him, and he sagged to his knees. The two guys holding his arms let him drop, and Jordan toppled sideways.

All I could hear was the sound of Ryan’s labored breathing.

I tried to get to Jordan again, but Leather Jacket wouldn’t let me go.

Jordan’s face was unrecognizable. One eye was swollen shut, his lips were smashed, and more blood poured from his cheek and nose. His shirt was ripped and hung open, and his chest and ribs were covered in angry wheals. Ryan’s ring had done its job.

Still on his hands and knees, Jordan’s head hung down like a beaten dog. I watched the muscles in his arms bunch as he staggered to his feet.

Ryan hit him again before he was even fully standing, and Jordan crashed to the ground.

I held my breath, my voice shredded from screaming. My lungs burned as I sagged in the arms of the man who held me.

Stay down! I begged silently. Stay down!

A rumble started in the crowd as slowly, painfully, Jordan pushed himself to his feet again, and stood swaying, his arms at his sides.

“Look’ee there!” whispered one man excitedly, pointing toward us.

“I’m not gonna fight you, Ry,” Jordan coughed out, the breath heaving painfully in his chest.

Ryan stared at him, panting and furious. He swung again. Jordan crashed backwards.

“Fight back you chicken bastard!” he raged. “Fight back!”

I thought this time Jordan would stay down, but he rolled slowly onto his side, his fingers scrabbling at the dirt on the ground, his hands swollen from where he’d been kicked and stamped on. Once again he forced himself to his knees. Once again he staggered to his feet.

“Oh God, no!” I moaned.

Seconds later he was down again, barely moving.

Ryan turned to me, his face furious and frustrated.

“Why isn’t he fightin’ back?” he roared.

“Because he won’t!” I screamed. “He won’t fight back because he thinks you’re right! He won’t fight you because he can’t!” I took a shuddering breath, my words coming out faintly. “Because he believes he deserves this.”

“Bastard!” shouted Ryan, pushed past endurance.

Jordan was on his hands and knees when Ryan punched him in the head.

I watched as my love lay sprawled on the ground unmoving, his blood pooling darkly.

I tried to say his name but my voice was gone.

I don’t know who spoke, but there was a voice in the crowd as hushed whispers began to ripple among them.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

The man holding my arms let me go and I crawled across the sidewalk toward Jordan. I wanted to hold him but somebody stopped me.

“Best you don’t move him, miss,” said a man’s voice, a kind voice. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

I reached out for Jordan’s hand and held it gently in mine.

“Jordan,” I gasped. “Jordan, I love you. I love you so much.”

I heard sirens in the distance, coming closer each second, and a moment later the crowd parted. Somebody tried to pull me away from him but I wouldn’t let go.

“Let them help him,” said the kind voice again. “You have to let go now.”

A woman I didn’t know pulled me into her arms and stroked my hair like a child. My hands and knees, my shirt and my jeans, even the ends of my long hair were painted with Jordan’s blood.

I watched as they fastened a brace around his neck, and carefully lifted him onto a stretcher. His eyes were closed, his limbs heavy and unresponsive.

I tried to go with him but they slammed shut the doors of the ambulance, and he was taken away from me.

“I think she’s in a shock,” a voice said beside me.

“Miss, are you hurt? Did you hit your head?”

An authoritative voice was talking to me.

I had just enough presence of mind left to realize that if I said yes, they’d take me to the hospital, too.

“Yes, it hurts,” I whispered.

And then they whisked me into a second ambulance and I was taken away.

I couldn’t believe what had happened. Had it lasted minutes or just seconds? It seemed to have gone on and on, a lifetime of watching Jordan beaten into the ground. Why wouldn’t he stay down? I knew why.

At the hospital they cleaned me up and checked me over. I had a few scrapes to my hands and knees, but nothing more serious. Even so, I couldn’t stop shaking. My skin was cold and clammy, and I felt sick. Someone gave me a blanket. But whenever I asked about Jordan, it was as if I was speaking ancient Greek. No one heard me. No one answered me! I felt ready to scream. I wanted to scream.

I screamed.

Several people jumped, and a porter pushing an empty wheelchair stumbled.

“WHERE’S JORDAN? WHAT’S HAPPENING? SOMEBODY TELL ME SOMETHING NOW!”

A nurse came hurrying toward me, spouting the usual inanities, the trite words that are supposed to soothe but just incense: they’re doing everything they can; you can help him most by staying calm; the doctor’s with him now.

I got their attention but I still didn’t get any answers. Perhaps there weren’t any to give. The thought was horrifying.

Hospitals lie. They give us hope of certainties; the solid buildings and wide, calm corridors make us want to believe it’ll be okay. It isn’t okay. People die in hospitals all the time. Our bodies are just fragile sacks of blood and pus and bones.

A nurse approached me with a clipboard.

“I don’t have time for this!” I yelled at her. “You don’t understand! I need to see Jordan. They hurt him so badly!”

“Dr. Manoz is with him now,” she said, her voice too calm and collected. “Let her do her job. You can help your friend by helping us fill out this form.

I took the clipboard from her, and she gave me a professional smile. See, I got the crazy woman to stop screaming. I am a great nurse.

She passed me the pen, waited a second to make sure I was compliant, then marched away. There were more important things to do than talk to a woman who was dying on the inside.

I stared at the form then started to scratch out my answers. My handwriting was barely legible, my hands were shaking so badly.

 

Name of patient: JORDAN JOSEPH KANE Age: 24 Date of birth:

Shit! Shit! When was his birthday? December 7^th. No 8^th. Or was it 9^th? Shit, 8^th, definitely 8^th. It was late August now. That made him still 23. I think.

 

Address: Buttwipe, Nowheresville, Tx

Relation to patient: Everything. No, they wouldn’t like that answer, so I lied. I wrote, ‘Fiancée’.

 

Social Security number:

 

 

Who the hell cares? Other than the vultures who make money out of people who need help.

 

Is the patient on any medication? No Does the patient have any allergies?

I couldn’t think of any. Jordan had never mentioned anything. Could I risk answering that? What if he was allergic to penicillin? I didn’t know.

 

Then my phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out, my fingers trembling over the screen.

 

If you’re late cause you’re screwing that fine man of yours,

 

I’m going to be pissed! Bev x

 

 

Her message grounded me, and I knew I had to start pulling myself together.

Ignoring the hospital sign that said cell phones must be switched off, I called Jordan’s dad.

“Paul, it’s Torrey. Jordan’s been hurt. He’s been attacked and badly beaten. You have to come to the hospital now. ”

He tried to get me to explain what had happened but I couldn’t bring myself to do it over the phone. His voice shook, but he said he’d come at once.

Then I phoned Bev.

“Where the fuck are you guys?” she yelled, on the first ring.

The only reply she got was the sound of me sniffing.

“Torrey? Are you there? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“They got him!” I sobbed. “They finally got him!”

I heard her gasp. I’d confided to her that my greatest fear was that someone would deliberately hurt Jordan. So she instantly understood what I’d said.

“Where are you? We’re coming to get you!”

I leaned back in my chair, the form falling from my numb fingers. I was too stunned to cry anymore.

Minutes later, Paul was scooping me into his arms.

“What happened, darlin’? Where’s Jordan?”

“They beat him up, Paul. Really bad. Four of them. They won’t tell my anything! They say they’re working on him but I don’t know anything! ”

My words ended in a piercing wail.

Paul’s face was ashen.

He stood up angrily, and I grabbed his arm.

“I … I told them … I said I was his fiancée. I thought … just to find out … I mean I’m not … we’re not…”

He kissed my hair quickly and marched up to the nurse’s desk.

“My son, Jordan Kane. Where is he?”

“If you’ll take a seat, sir,” said the nurse, blandly.

“Not until I get some information. My son’s fiancée tells me you refuse to talk to her. I want some answers now or the hospital administration will be talking to my lawyer.”

I was so glad he was here. I was so glad to hear his kind-hearted bullshit. I wasn’t his son’s fiancée and he didn’t have a lawyer. God, I loved that man. I’d only known him a few months, but he’d become a second father to me. A better father than my own maybe.

We were reassured. Every effort … The doctor is working on him now … If you’ll just wait … If you could just complete the form.

We sat.

We waited.

Paul picked up the form.

 

Does the patient have any allergies?No, he wrote.

Jordan didn’t have any allergies. I should have known that. Why didn’t I know that?

 

Has the patient been admitted to hospital before? Yes. Admittance Date: August 2006, attempted suicide by hanging, damage to trachea. November 2008, punctured lung.

“I need the pen,” I said.

“What for?”

I took it from Paul’s hand without answering and added a line.

 

Admittance date: January 2009, attempted suicide, severed radial arteries.

Paul was stunned and his eyes became glassy with tears. I handed him back the pen, and with a shaking hand, he filled in the last line, signed and dated it.

 

Next of kin: Torrey Delaney (fiancée); Paul Kane (father).

I looked up into Paul’s kind eyes, so much like Jordan’s, and I thanked him without words.

We hugged each other tightly.

“I’ve phoned his mother,” Paul said, gently. “She’d want to know.”

“Are you sure about that?” I said, abruptly pulling away from him.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he replied, his voice firm with conviction.

We stared at each other, each with secrets in our eyes. I wanted to argue but I didn’t have the energy. I sat in angry silence for several minutes.

Paul’s head dropped into his hands.

“I never wanted to see this hospital ever again,” he said, his voice broken and husky.

Oh God. This hospital. The place he lost both sons, in a very real sense.

“I’m so sorry, Paul,” I whispered.

He held my hand between his.

“I know,” he replied.

There was a flurry of noise as Bev and Pete flew down the corridor. She stumbled to a stop when she saw us.

“Oh no! Is he…?”

Pete grabbed her as she began to sway.

“He’s holding his own,” said Paul.

I didn’t know why he was able to say that with such certainty, but I found myself believing him. Jordan was strong. He could take a beating.

I closed my eyes, hearing again the sound of his head thudding onto the concrete sidewalk; bile burned my throat.

Bev sat down next to me and took my other hand.

“Is there anything we can do?” she whispered.

I shook my head.

“They’ve told us we have to be patient.”

I laughed an empty laugh. It wasn’t funny. It was painful. It was ridiculous. Who can be patient when you’re waiting to hear how your world has changed, maybe forever?

We waited. And we waited. The slow seconds wound their way toward minutes, and the minutes lethargically stretched toward hours.

We’d been there long enough for Bev to have drunk three horrible coffees, and two each for the rest of us, when a tired looking Mexican woman in green scrubs walked toward us.

“Mr. Kane?” she asked, looking to Paul for confirmation.

“Yes. Is he…?”

She gave a tight smile. “I’m Dr. Manoz. I’ve been treating your son. He’s pretty knocked up, but he’s going to be fine.”

My heart leapt and shuddered, and I learned to breathe again.

“We were worried about a head injury, but he started to come around a few minutes ago. The injury of most concern now is a detached retina. We need to take him into surgery immediately. There’s a good chance he won’t have any permanent loss of sight in that eye. He’s lucid now, if you want to see him. But only for a minute.”

If? If we wanted to see him? Why would we be wearing our hearts in plain view if we didn’t? Why would we be gray with fear? I controlled my irrational anger, knowing that this doctor didn’t weigh or calculate the impact of every word she spoke. She should have. She should have realized. They ought to teach doctors to do that, because it matters. Every syllable that leaves their lips wounds or heals—they have that power.

“Just two of you,” she said. “He’s tired, a little confused, and in a lot of pain.”

Paul nodded; I just stared at her.

Bev gave my hand a quick squeeze and assured us they’d wait.

The doctor led us down a corridor, noisy with visitors, to a room that contained a dozen hospital beds. Most were empty, but the area at the bottom had a curtain pulled across.

She gestured toward the curtained bed.

“He has a number of injuries in addition to the detached retina and head laceration,” she said. “He has a fractured cheekbone, five broken ribs, his index finger on his right hand is crushed, and he has a sprained wrist, as well as a number of cuts and contusions.”

She pulled back the curtain with a quick jerk, and I swallowed hard. Jordan’s face was partially covered in gauze, and a large pad covered his left eye. His lips were swollen and his chest and arms were stained with vivid purples, blues and reds.

I sat beside the bed and took his good hand in mine.

“Hey, cowboy,” I choked out.

His right eye fluttered open, and I think he tried to smile.

“I’m so mad at you,” I said, as tears began to fall. “And you look like shit.”

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he mumbled from between his bruised lips. “Just payin’ a debt.”

Paul stood wordless next to me, his hand resting on my shoulder. Jordan’s gaze flickered upward.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Your girl’s right,” he said, laughing to stop himself from crying. “You look like hell, son.”

“Feel like it,” he mumbled, his eyelid fluttering closed again.

Dr. Manoz bustled back into the room.

“We have to take him now,” she said. “It’s a standard procedure and is normally performed under local anesthetic. Because of his other injuries, the surgeon, Dr. Linden, has decided to use a general. The procedure usually takes about an hour but Jordan will feel sleepy for six to 12 hours afterward. If you have any questions, Dr. Linden will be happy to answer them.”

“I’ve got to go now,” I said to Jordan, quietly. “Places to be, things to do.”

I think he tried to smile but I couldn’t be sure. I leaned down, hoping to find somewhere undamaged to place a soft kiss. He even had blood in his hair.

The doctor hustled us out of the room immediately, and abandoned us in the corridor. Bev pulled me into a tight hug.

“He’s goin’ to be okay,” Paul said.

He went on to list Jordan’s injuries while Bev and Pete looked on appalled.

“You guys should go on home now,” I said, quietly. “He won’t be awake until tomorrow morning now. You should get some sleep.”

“Come with us,” Bev pleaded. “You need to rest. We’ll bring you back in the morning.”

I shook my head.

“No, I’m staying.”

She sighed and made me promise to text her the moment we knew anything.

The echo of their footsteps followed them down the corridor.

A nurse came to move us from the ER to a surgical waiting area. Maybe she just wanted us out of the way. Maybe another family would be coming in, desperate to hear whether their special someone was going to make it. The hospital machine had to keep on grinding away.

A few minutes later, a cheerful man of about fifty wearing the now familiar green scrubs of a doctor, entered the room.

Dr. Linden had a professional warmth, and a calm, kind expression. It was the sort of face that you instantly trusted even if you didn’t want to.

“We’ve caught the damage early,” he said. “There’s still a 10-15% chance that Jordan will need a further operation, but I’m hopeful that won’t be the case. It’ll be very uncomfortable for him for a couple of days, particularly because the area around the eye is already badly swollen. Healing takes two to six weeks, but because of insertion of gas into the eye during the procedure, Jordan will eventually develop a cataract in his left eye. This is easily treated when the cataract matures in two or three years. With luck, there’ll be no permanent loss of vision.”

He nodded. We nodded.

Paul signed the consent papers and we were left alone.

I didn’t feel like talking, but Paul asked me to explain what had happened. He was raw with grief by the time I’d finished.

“Ryan Dupont,” he said, over and over. “I cain’t believe it. They were friends.” He shook his head.

I didn’t have any comfort left to offer him.

Just for something to do, Paul went to find food and drink. I couldn’t stand any more of that foul coffee, so he promised to hunt for a soda machine.

I made a promise, too. I promised myself that as soon as Jordan was well enough to travel, as soon as his parole had ended, we were getting the hell out of this poisonous little town. We’d face forward and never look back. We’d find somewhere we could both start again. I’d find a job as a paralegal, and Jordan could finish his ASE training. We’d get our own place and start to build a future together. Maybe Paul could come visit. Maybe we…

“What are you doin’ here?”

I looked up and saw Jordan’s mother staring at me, dislike distorting her face.

“Don’t start with me, lady!”

She’d just challenged the wrong fucking woman.

 

 

Torrey

 

“Don’t start with me, lady!” I snarled. I stared back at Jordan’s mother, my anger molten, becoming volcanic by the second. “I love him. What’s your excuse?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, ready to reply, but the door swung open and Paul returned carrying the sodas and sandwiches. His eyes shuttled between us, taking in my rigid posture, clenched fists, and Gloria’s ugly, accusing glare.

Without speaking, he handed me the cello-wrapped food and one of the cans, then he looked at his wife.

“He’s goin’ to be okay, Gloria.”

I swear, if she looks disappointed for one second I won’t be responsible for my actions.

She nodded jerkily, acknowledging Paul’s words.

“He’s in surgery now…”

“I thought you said he was goin’ to be okay,” she interrupted, and for a moment I thought a saw of flash of something other than hatred, but it was gone too quickly for me to be sure.

“He is,” Paul replied, quietly, “but they have to repair a detached retina. He also has some broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, cuts and bruises.”

She snorted and settled herself onto a chair, looking irritated.

“You called me here for that? I thought … never mind.”

I was on my feet again, glaring down at her.

“What? What! That wasn’t enough for you? What the fuck is the matter with you? He was beaten unconscious by four thugs. He could have been killed!”

She seemed stunned by my attack, but not the words I’d spoken.

“Are you goin’ to let her talk to me like that?” she gasped outraged, staring at her husband with righteous indignation.

“If she hadn’t said it, I would,” he snapped, his voice becoming sharper.

“I’ve driven all this way…” she began.

“And why’s that?” I snarled. “Why are you here? Why did you even bother?”

Her eyes narrowed and she looked at me like I was shit on her shoe.

“I don’t answer to you!”

“I don’t think you know why you’re here,” I said, venomously. “Probably trying to look like you’re doing the right thing again.”

“He’s my son,” she shot back, furiously. “I’m here to take care of him.”

Seriously? I laughed out loud, a hard, bitter sound.

“Like you ‘took care’ of him for the last eight years?”

Her hands twitched and a muscle beside her eye jumped.

We were practically nose to nose, ready to slug it out, when we were interrupted by a knock at the door. Without waiting for any of us to reply, a nurse marched into the room, escorting two men in suits.

They took in Gloria’s furious stare and my angry stance without comment. The nurse just raised her eyebrows. Fighting families—nothing she hadn’t seen before. Hospitals bring out raw emotions, it’s inevitable, like death and taxes.

“I’m sorry to intrude at this difficult time,” said the taller man, without sounding the least bit sarcastic. I wondered if he’d practiced that tone. “My name is Detective Lopez and this is my colleague Detective Sanders. I wonder if you could take a few minutes to answer some questions.”

Paul nodded and waved them to a pair of plastic seats.

I took a deep breath and turned my back on Gloria. If I didn’t look at her, I might be able to calm down slightly. I slumped into a seat and popped the tab on my soda, taking a long drink.

The police officers took our names and carefully noted our relationships to Jordan. I could see his mother quiver in her seat when Paul described me as Jordan’s fiancée.

“And this isn’t the first time he’s been targeted,” I snapped, rubbed the wrong way by the slow progression of the interview. “He’s been threatened before and I have a photo of what they did to his truck a couple of months back.”

I scrolled through the many pictures of me and Jordan on my phone to find the image of his mutilated truck.

“And before you ask, no he didn’t report it. He was too … he prefers staying away from you guys, for obvious reasons.”

They looked at the photo, made a note of it and asked me to forward it to them, but otherwise didn’t comment. Then I had to describe again what had happened in the town square outside the bank.

My voice broke several times while I was retelling the story yet again, and Paul held my hand. Gloria’s eyes nearly leapt out of her head.

When I’d finished, the detectives looked incredulous.

“You’re saying he never threw a single punch? Even though four men were beating on him and his girlfriend?”

I lifted my chin at the insinuation that I was lying.

“None of them hit me. One restrained me.” I slipped off my cardigan and showed them the bruises on the tops of my arms where Leather Jacket had grabbed me. “I couldn’t get to him … I couldn’t … while the others … while the others brutalized Jordan.” I swallowed back the too fresh fear as the memory fought to swamp me. “And if you look at Jordan’s hands you’ll see that the only bruises are where the one with the cowboy boots stamped on them.”