“That’s good—real real good,” Evans said in response to Louis’ “They’re letting me come home tomorrow.” Evans sounded like a father speaking to his young son, though he and Louis were the same age.
“Come home tomorrow,” Evans repeated. “Yes come home tomorrow.” A part of Evans was happy Louis was coming home. He had grown weary of suffocating hospital rooms that had been Louis’s home for nearly a year. He was tired of the Nurse’s syrupy banter and the all-knowing Doctor Gods with their high shiny foreheads. The endless beeping and booping of machines made his stomach churn. He had heard the drama of death playing too many times--the wailing family members on one side of the wall while he and Louis watched Golden Girls or The Simpson’s on the other side.
Evans looked at Louis and felt a warm burning in his belly. Louis had walked out of their apartment late one night with a backpack slung over his shoulder—walked out on two legs to another man’s car. That car flew out of control on a patch of wet road and nearly crushed Louis in its metal belly. It curled about Louis like a snake curls about its prey. They had had to employ the Jaws of Life to pry Louis out of the mangled wreckage. They used forceps to pull the guy’s penis out of Louis’s mouth. And now Louis Simmons was coming home.