where they’d surgically installed the tube. The skin of his abdomen was warm and bright red.
“Gus, I think something’s infected. I can’t fix this. Why are you here? Why aren’t you at home?”
He puked, without even the energy to turn his mouth away from his lap. “Oh, sweetie,” I said.
“I wanted to buy a pack of cigarettes,” he mumbled. “I lost my pack. Or they took it away from me. I don’t know.
They said they’d get me another one, but I wanted... to do it myself. Do one little thing myself.”
He was staring straight ahead. Quietly, I pulled out my phone and glanced down to dial 911.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?
“Hi, I’m at the Speedway at Eighty-sixth and Ditch, and I need an ambulance. The great love of my life has a malfunctioning G-tube.”
He looked up at me. It was horrible. I could hardly look at him.
The Augustus Waters of the crooked smiles and unsmoked cigarettes was gone, replaced by this desperate humiliated creature sitting there beneath me.
“This is it. I can’t even not smoke anymore.” “Gus, I love you.”
Where is my chance to be somebody’s Peter Van Houten?He hit the steering wheel weakly, the car honking as he cried.
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