"Steven Gould - Jumper 03 - Griffin's Story" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)then slid the stretcher toward them, holding it steady as they put the newcomer down.
There was a rapid exchange in Spanish of which the only word I understood was "banditos" and they were working as they talked. Consuelo was wiping blood off the man's face as the bearded man hung another bag of liquid from the same line that supported mine. He cleaned a spot on the inside of the man's elbow with a wipe from a tear–open packet and then slid a needle into the skin. I winced and looked away. When I turned back, the needle was connected to the tube hanging down from the bag. The wind died for a moment, then shifted around, and I could smell him. He smelled awful, like one of the dirtier homeless guys around Balboa Park–rancid sweat and a whiff of urine. "Uh, need a loo . . . bathroom." My voice was a rasping croak but understandable. The bearded guy was putting a foam collar around the neck of the man on the stretcher. He looked up at me. "Really? That's a good sign." He reached over and pinched the back of my hand. I jerked it away. "Hey!" He shook his head, chuckling. "Pinch the skin on the back of your hand and let go. Where I can see." "Why?" "Dehydration. The longer the skin stays tented, the more dehydrated you are." "Oh." I held my hand up, palm down, and did what he asked. The skin pulled back flat pretty much as soon as I let go. "Hold still," he said. I froze and he peeled back the strip of tape securing my drip needle, then pulled it out, one quick, smooth movement. I felt a tug and then there was a red dot welling up. He handed me an antiseptic wipe. "Put pressure on it with that–hold it high. While you're peeing you can close your elbow over it." He put his own finger over the inside of his "Where's the loo–uh, toilet?" He laughed. "Pick a rock." I ducked gingerly out from under the tarp. My head spun and I bent over for a moment, bracing my hands on my thighs. After another moment things settled and I straightened carefully. There was a battered four–wheel–drive pickup parked between two boulders, so dusty I couldn't tell what color the paint job was. A large pair of binoculars and a battered orange–and–white ice chest sat on the tailgate. Two camp chairs sat in the partial shade of a mesquite bush. The pressure in my bladder reminded me why I was standing. I took limping steps in the direction of the largest rock down the hill and peed behind it. It took me longer to walk up the hill than down. It wasn't just gravity. Without the full bladder I didn't have the motivation, the need, and the gravel hurt my bare feet. It was hard not to just lie down on the ground right where I was and curl up in a ball. The bearded man ducked out of the tarp and glanced at me. "You okay?" No! I thought, but I nodded and resumed my painful limp up the hill. He motioned toward the camp chair. "I'm Sam," he said. "You got a name?" "Grif–" I stopped myself. Then continued. "John Grifford. They call me Griff." The woman claiming to be from the school district had asked for me, for Griffin O'Conner. "What happened to him?" I gestured at the blue tarp. "Bandits. He's a Mexican making the crossing to find work. Pretty poor but with a little money, usually everything his extended family can scratch together in U.S. dollars so he can travel to a city with jobs once he's across. There's them on both sides of the border that prey on 'em. |
|
|