"David Eddings - Losers, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

"The banker?"

"Right. He remembers you from the football field, and he'll take care of everything for you. You'll be getting a check every month. I put a few thousand in the hospital safe for you."

"A few thousand?"

"You're going to have unusual expenses when you leave the hospital, Raphael. I don't want you to run short. I'm afraid you'll find out just how little it is when you get out on the street. You're set financially, so you can just relax until you get back on your feet again." Harry stopped abruptly and looked away. "I'm sorry, but you know what I mean."

"Sure."

"I'll need your signature on a few things," his uncle went on. "Power of attorney for you and your mother-that kind of thing. That way you can concentrate on getting well and just leave everything else up to me. Okay?"

"Why not?"

"Mr. Quillian," Raphael said to his therapist a few days later while resting on his crutches.

"What is it, Taylor?" the balding man in the wheelchair asked him.

"Did you have any problems with all the drugs they give us?"

"Jesus Christ, Taylor! I've got a broken back. Of course I had a problem with drugs. I fought drugs for five years."

"How did you beat it?"

"Beat it? Beat it, boy?" Quillian exploded. "You never beat it. Sometimes-even now-I'd give my soul for one of those shots you get every other hour."

"All right, then. How did you stop?"

"How? You just stop, boy. You just stop. You just don't take any more."

"All right," Raphael said. "I can do that if I have to. Now, when do I get my wooden leg?"

Quillian looked at him. "What?"

"My peg leg? Whatever the hell you call it?"

"Prosthesis, Taylor. The word is prosthesis. Haven't you talked with your doctor yet?"

"He's too busy. Is there something else I'm supposed to know?"

Quillian looked away for a moment, then looked back, his face angry. "Dammit," he swore. "I'm not supposed to get mixed up in this." He spun his wheelchair away and rolled across the room to a file cabinet. "Come over here, Taylor." He jerked open a cabinet drawer and leafed through until he found a large brown envelope.

Raphael crutched across the room, his movements smoother now.

"Over to the viewer," Quillian said harshly, wheeled, and snapped the switch on the fluorescent viewer. He stuck an X-ray picture on the plate.

"What's that?" Raphael asked.

"That's you, Taylor. That's what's left of you. Full front, lower segment. You don't have a left hip socket. The left side of your pelvis is shattered. There's no way that side of you could support your weight. There won't be any prosthesis for you, Taylor. You're on crutches for the rest of your life, boy. You might as well get that down in your mind."