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©Robert M. (Bob) Leahy
2110 E. Crosby Road
Carrollton, TX 75006
(972) 416 - 6098
Approximate Word Count: 5,850
“We Shouldn’t Be Doing This”
“I can hear Scotty now, ‘This ain’t right.’ And I see several in the sea of faces in front nodding in agreement.
The first time I ever heard that phrase, I was pinned to the ground behind St. Adelbert’s Grade School in Youngstown. Six fifth-graders had grabbed me and wrestled me down, not that I gave them much of a struggle. I remember how tight my stomach was, how my chest pounded, and how bad I had to pee.
“Look at the new kid,” the leader, Joey Hawthorne, was laughing as he pointed at me.
I wanted to get up and beat the crap out of that Joey Hawthorne. But I couldn’t move, not with his crew—Dexter, Larry, Pete, Keenan and George—clamped to my limbs and pressing down on my chest.
Then, just as Joey started to reach down to undo my belt and depants me, I heart it for the first time: “This ain’t right.”
And, if a schoolyard can ever become instantly quiet during the lunch recess, St. Adelbert’s did so. Dexter and Pete let go of me. My right arm and left leg were free, not that they did me much good. I was still too afraid to move.
I looked toward the voice and ended up being blinded by the sun.
“This ain’t right, Joey. You shouldn’t be doing this,” the voice said, coming closer. Another step, and the sun was hidden behind what looked like the biggest grade-schooler that ever lived. But, looking up from the ground, things aren’t always seen as they really are.
“This ain’t none of your business, Scott,” Joey told him. But he stepped back from the giant as he spoke.
“This ain’t right,” Scott said again. This time, he turned to look at each of the boys still holding me down. Larry let go when their eyes met. Then Keenan let go. George let go before Scott even turned toward him.
“You’re new, ain’t you,” Scott said, holding a hand out toward me.
“Well, let’s go,” he said, shaking the hand at me. I reached up and grabbed it, and Scott pulled me to my feet. He didn’t even have to lean back, he was so big—or I was so little.
“This ain’t right, Joey. And you know it,” Scott said. “You shouldn’t be treating him like that just ‘cause he’s new.”
“It wasn’t just because he was new,” Joey protested. “He’s little, too.”
“It ain’t right.”
Scott ushered me away from the fifth-graders. “Don’t mind them none,” he told me. “They’ll leave you alone—at least for a while.”
“Thanks.” I said, although I could hardly hear myself say it. I studied Scott’s face for a moment, seeing it clearly for the first time. He had gray eyes—some would late say they were steel gray, but I don’t think they were ever that hard. He skin was darker than mine—he would later tell me it came from his southern European roots. And his hair was as black as charcoal. He wore an easy smile now as I looked at him; it was very different from the fierce glare I saw as he faced Joey and the others earlier.
“What’s your name?”
“Robert. Robert Conroy,” I said, adding, “But everybody calls be Bucky.”
Scott studied my face for a minute before asking, “Why?”
“I don’t know. My uncle called me that once and it sort of stuck.”
I found out later that Scott was in the other fourth grade classroom, across the hall from mine. His birthday was just two days after mine--on October 5th. Looking at him, I would never have guessed we were the same age. If I hadn’t been there, I would never have believed a single fourth-grader could stand up to a pack of older kids.
But that was the way Scott was.
I glance past the pearl gray of the casket and smile at Scott’s wife, Margaret. Her dark eyes, puffy with tears, tighten my throat. She gives me a weak smile as she pulls the youngest of three Puget girls close. Amanda, only four, says something to her mother who nods in reply. Allyson and Abby Marie, the seven-year-old twins, huddle together on the other side of Scott’s mother. I find it odd to be thinking how Scott’s mother still looks the same these 32 years later as she did when I was nine.
When I find my wife’s face among those in the row behind Scott’s family, she mouths, “I love you.” My daughter, Sam—Samantha, pulls on her braided pigtails, which she always does when she gets bored. I wonder what she might be thinking. I wonder what she might do if I were dead now instead of Scott. I can feel the heat of a tear streaming down my cheek.
Someone’s cough intrudes into my reverie.
“We all knew Scott was special,” I say, continuing my eulogy. I struggled for hours coming up with that line. My first line had been so easy. But deciding what to say next ….
“He was special because, even as a child, he believed that there were actions which were right and actions which were wrong. He always seemed to know which an action was. And he wasn’t afraid to tell someone that an action wasn’t right. There are many stories I could tell you about Scott that would show you how his convictions kept me and others out of trouble. But most of you know them already.”
My darling Joan had warned me not to tell too many stories. She told me to pick two or three short ones. She told me it would be enough. She emphasized that I was just reminding people of who Scott was. I wasn’t introducing him to anyone. “But there are so many,” I whined. “I don’t which to choose.”
In seventh grade, all of us moved from St. Adelbert’s to the public junior high, Taft. Scott went out for football, which was no real surprise. That he talked me into it, too, was. I never did catch up to my classmates in size. But I could run pretty fast, and I could kick a ball off a tee straight down the field. And Scott told me the team needed me. I even won a game ball, not for kicking the deciding field goal or extra point, but for tackling a return man who had gotten past the rest of the team on the kickoff at the beginning of the third quarter. I was halfway across the field when I saw him break past the last of our guys and start down the sideline. And I ran for all I was worth and got him on the nine. When the other team could only move it six yards and kicked a field goal, we were able to claim a 7-3 victory. The coach told me later that he didn’t think I could catch him. After that, I played on punts, too.
As a freshman in high school, I got cut from the playing squad, but I stayed on the team as equipment manager. My sophomore year, I was planning on performing the same duties when Scott told me that wasn’t right. I had the ability to be the place kicker, and since last year’s starter graduated, there was no reason I shouldn’t at least try for the spot.
I can’t say I had as much fun playing in high school as I did in junior high. The coach and the school took the football as something more than a game. But Scott told me I couldn’t let the pressure get to me--even after I missed a game-tying field goal in the regionals my junior year. Scott said it wasn’t right to blame me—especially since the field goal was blocked. The line should have done a better job holding back the opposing team. I don’t know if Scott ever convinced Coach Hardwick that it wasn’t my fault, but he seemed to have managed convincing the rest of the team. I don’t think anyone got close to blocking another field goal attempt.
And playing football got me a scholarship to Wayne State College, where Scott and Joey Hawthorne both played.
Joan told me that was a story more about me than about Scott. She could have someone tell it at my funeral, but it wasn’t right for this one. I noticed Joey Hawthorne sitting toward the back of the church. He would have liked that story. We finally became friends playing football in junior high. He told me that being a runt wasn’t all that bad, after all—high praise from him.
“As we celebrated the end of our ninth-grade year, most of us were feeling bigger and more important and invincible than we really were. I guess all boys of that age do. After the dance at the junior high, a bunch of us wanted to continue partying. Someone in the group suggested we go out to the lake. Scott told us he was going home, and that we could head over with him and call our folks.
“I don’t know quite how Scott took the ribbing that followed his announcement. If I had been him, I would have wanted to crawl under a rock.”
“’It ain’t right,’ Scott said.”
“Several mimicked him, ‘It ain’t right.’ And a lot of the guys hooted about it.”
“’You know it ain’t right,’ Scott said one more time, and then he turned and started walking away.”
“I was torn between following Scott and staying with the rest of the guys. Most of them had just started accepting me in the last year or so, and I sure didn’t want to be cut out of the group. But I knew Scott was right. I hadn’t even asked my folks about staying out after the dance. And I was only a ninth-grader.”
“’Wait up!’ I finally called out to Scott. I gave the guys around me a quick look, and said, ‘You know he’s right about this.’ And I darted after him.”
“’Come on, guys,’ I heard Joey Hawthorne say. And I thought, ‘Well that’s that.’ But Joey surprised me and probably all of the rest of the guys when he said, ‘Let’s go over to Scott’s.’”
“One by one, we called our folks and told them where we were. Most said we could stay the night. Some asked to speak with Mrs. Puget. And the next thing I knew, parents were bringing sodas and chips. It was a great party.”
“Of course, not everyone went over to Scott’s. And some of the ninth-graders did end up at the lake. And there was some drinking and horseplay. And Jack Dempsey drowned out there. None of us ever said anything about it, but we all knew it might have been one of us, if not for Scott.”
Scott never smoked. And he didn’t drink until he was 21.
“What are you doing?” I asked Scott one day when I walked into the music room before choir practice at church.
“Shh,” he whispered. “Sister Mary Bernard’s just getting a glass of water.” The he showed me the little pitch pipe he had taken out of the drawer of the desk at the front of the room. He smiled. Then he went to his seat in the back of the room where the bases sat.
Before I could ask him anything else, Sister came in. “Ah, I see my kicking tenor and blocking bass are both here. Where’s everyone else?”
I shrugged in reply, then turned and went to me seat on the left side of the room. After I sat down, I turned toward Scott, but he ignored me, looking out the window. And the next thing I knew the room had filled up with the rest of the choir, so I couldn’t even mouth a question to my friend.
“We’ve got a lot to do today,” Sister said, starting to pass out new music. We have several songs to learn for the first Sunday of Advent. So let’s warm up, shall we? Everyone find his or her pitch.” She moved back toward the desk as she spoke, just as she always did, and reached into the top desk drawer as she finished her last sentence, which was part of her routine, too. When she felt around for a moment, everyone knew something was wrong. A moment later, she pulled out a piece of tissue paper and a comb. And the whole room burst out laughing.
Sister smiled, then waved us to silence. Then she surprised everyone by blowing out tuning notes out on the comb and tissue.
After practice, Scott hung back, so I did, too. He brought Sister her pitch pipe.
“You did that, Scott?” she asked.
“Because you always get really tense whenever we have new music to learn, and then you get us all tense, too, and everything seems to go wrong. And I don’t like to sing when things get that way.”
Sister was quiet for a long moment. I wasn’t sure what she was going to do. “You’re a pretty special young man, Scott Puget,” she told him. And then she said, “Thanks,” and gave him a wink.
“Wow,” was all I could say as we walked down the hall and out of the building. “I can’t believe she said that.”
“When we were at Wayne State, Scott and I decided to major in criminal justice. Actually, Scott decided on a major, and I went along because I couldn’t decide on anything I really wanted to study. Scott had decided on police work as his career when he was quite young—I was going to say, from the time he was little, but I don’t think he ever was.” I take a quick look down at Scott’s mom. She nodded when our eyes met. “It was the perfect career for Scott. It gave him a chance to help others do what was right and to help those who had been hurt by someone who had done something wrong.”
“Many of you probably don’t know how big Scott’s role in opening the Mead Avenue Family Shelter was. As policemen on the beat, Scott and I encountered more cases of parental and spousal abuse than I would have thought possible in our peaceful town. It was the case of Carolyn Hays that really got to Scott.”
After 12 years on the police force, Scott learned to control his emotions very well. When I caught up with Scott that September, he was peering down into the drainage ditch in the back of the wooded lot where five-year-old Carolyn Hays had lived with her father. Even beneath the canopy of trees in the growing darkness of evening, the blue-black bruises on the child’s white neck were unmistakable. “We shouldn’t have to be looking at this,” Scott said. “The dad in custody?” he asked, turning toward me. There were tears in his eyes.
“Just heard on the radio. He was picked up a Glenn’s Tavern.”
I remember Scott’s telling me, some time later, that the grandmother had called the police on John Hay’s, the girl’s father, several times. And had tried to get the welfare people to take the child away. The grandmother had witnessed the father’s treatment of the girl on several occasions. But the welfare people always gave him a positive review when they investigated.
The grandmother had told Scott she couldn’t keep the child—not full time, even if her father would have allowed it. But she did try to take her out on Saturday afternoons and to church on Sundays.
The grandmother had the little girl call her whenever her father threatened her.
The grandmother then called a neighbor, Hank Rhodes, who would stop by and check on things, maybe stay and have a cup of coffee. Hank Rhodes was John Hays long-time friend. They grew up together, played on the same semi-pro baseball club, and Hank often had “fix-up” problems he would bring to John, who was handy with tools. It was such a natural thing for Hank to stop by that the grandmother was sure that John didn’t even suspect he was sent over.
But, Hank had a heart attack.
When the grandmother called to say she was worried about her granddaughter, the officer on duty did not dispatch anyone to the scene. It was recorded as another call from the grandmother. One of so many. Nothing had happened in the past.
Perhaps, if there had been 911 back then.
Perhaps, if the little girl made the call to the police station herself.
“Carolyn Hays’ death turned Scott into a crusader for some sort of shelter. As Scott worked on the case, he learned Carolyn Hays went to First Baptist Church with her grandmother. And he learned that the grandmother had tried to get Rev. Griffith to help her protect the little girl. The Reverend had felt helpless, as most of us do.”
“I can’t tell you how many times I heard Scott say, “It ain’t right. I’m telling you Bucky, this ain’t right. We shouldn’t be letting this happen.” But I didn’t know he was trying to do something about it himself until Monsignor O’Brien asked me about it in passing one Sunday after church.”
“Scott had been reading up about the problem, and had talked to our sociology teacher back at Wayne State about what different communities the size of Youngstown—even smaller—were doing. And then he was going around to the different churches in town and telling them what he thought needed to be done. He showed all the ministers in town that every one of them had cause to be concerned. Monsignor O’Brien told me just the other day that until Scott had laid out the facts to him, he had no idea how big the problem was nor how close to home it hit.”
“I asked Monsignor O’Brien why Scott wasn’t there when the shelter was opened. ‘He didn’t want to be,’ he told me. Apparently all the ministers tried to convince him that he should be there for the opening, but he refused. Monsignor O’Brien said that at first he though Scott was being falsely modest. But, after a while, he came to accept Scott’s reasoning: The churches would be funding and running the center, and so they should be the ones to open it. It didn’t matter where the idea came from. ‘It’s the right thing to do. Period,’ Scott said. And Monsignor O’Brien and the other ministers finally agreed.
“Scott had a collection of unusual traits. He was smarter than most people expected and far more sensitive than most realized.”
When we were in college, Scott and I traded on our strengths. I was much better in math and science than he was. He was better in literature and history. Wayne state had mandatory study hall for the athletes—including the cheer leading squad. And the academic advisor, Coach Polk, made the rounds of classes during the day to spot check to make sure everyone was in class. Some teachers disliked the attention and help we got, but most welcomed it. Some teachers didn’t give athletes much credit for having any academic skills, but Coach Polk did his best to make sure everyone of his kids was in class and making progress.
Our junior and senior years at Wayne State, Scott and I were just two of two dozen or so athletes that tutored during study hall. We were the only two football players that did. Several swimmers and kids on the tennis team did, too. And so did Marquis Jenkins, the all-American center on the basketball team. He was just about the smartest person I think I ever met.
Scott was able to read between the lines of a story so much better than I was. I think he felt more than read literature. I didn’t like most of the stuff we had to read. But he helped me understand some of the imagery and themes that I would never have seen on my own. And he was the same with people. He could sense more about them then I could. I was better at looking at the cold hard facts and adding them up, but he was better at sensing the human factors that didn’t always make sense. It’s probably why we were a good team.
Back at Wayne State, there was a bit of a scandal in the athletic department our sophomore year. It was probably going on when we were freshmen, too, but we were just too naïve to know about it. As sophomores, Scott and I took the second half of American History, one of the required courses in Wayne State’s core curriculum. We ended up in a class from 1 to 2:30 on Mondays and Wednesdays taught by Dr. Clyde Morritz. I thought the guy was about as lively as stagnating water, but Scott said he was pretty funny—in a literary way. And, I have to admit, after I forced myself to listen, he did say some witty things. As we prepared for the first major exam, one of the upper classmen on the team who was also in the class told us we didn’t need to sweat the exam. And a day later he gave us a sheet that had the multiple-choice and true-false answers on it. “Even if you completely blow the essays, you’ll pass with this,” he told us.
Scott took the sheet and stuck it in his book and didn’t say a word about it. We continued to study. I didn’t learn until the day of the test that Scott had done anything.
As we filed in to take the test, Dr. Morritz announced he was using a new test for this section of the course, since we had covered some items that were not covered in the old textbook he had used in the past. “So, if you had a friend who had me last semester, studying that friend’s old test won’t help you out as much as you thought.”
I couldn’t believe all the grumbling that was going on. And I didn’t think the test was all that hard. But, as it turns out, only Scott and I and about a quarter of the class passed it.
As we were walking over to the stadium to get ready for practice after the test, I asked Scott what he did.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I know it was you that got the test changed.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said.
“Okay, I played a part. It just wasn’t right for everyone to be cheating. But all I did was take that sheet of paper to Coach Polk. I didn’t tell him where I got it. I just said I knew this page was floating around the study hall and that I didn’t think it was right, especially since I had worked so hard to prepare for the test in the first place. He told me he would take care of it.”
Coach Polk told me later that he went to Dr. Morritz and said that one of his players had seen a sheet of paper with all of the answers on it. At first, Morritz was really mad at Coach Polk. But Coach told him, “Look, I’m just passing along information that one of my boys told me. I’m not the one you should be mad at. And I would bet that members of the athletic department are not the only ones with the answers.” Coach said he talked to him a long time.
Morritz changed all his tests for that semester. He did allow the students to drop one test score, which had always been his policy. But only a small handful of us got to skip the final exam.
I know I will miss his wry sense of humor. His enthusiasm for life. His willingness to lend a hand.
Two years ago, my wife and I tried our hand at selling house cleaning products as a sideline. The fact that neither of us liked to sell things, and the fact that we were required to start with so much of so many products that we paid for really put us in a big financial bind. For two months, a large part of our garage warehoused huge boxes of laundry soaps, whiteners, brighteners, hair-care products, and assorted perfumed candles and potpourris.
Scott came over one afternoon to borrow my power saw, and laughed as a struggled to make my way through our soap stash to the back wall of the garage where my tools were kept. “What in the world?”
“Kirkland Soaps,” I replied.
“You’re selling that stuff?”
“No, and that’s the problem,” I sighed.
“How much you got here?” Scott asked.
“I couple of tons. All paid for. Now I got to get rid of it.”
Scott talked me into giving him the price list and inventory, and the next thing I knew, people were calling the house to ask us if we had such-and-such.
I couldn’t believe we were able to get rid of almost everything. I think we had a couple boxed of the dry bleach and a box of soap left, which we used—and three dozen scented candles which friends have been getting for birthday and wedding presents. We made a small profit, half of which went for a steak dinner that we took Scott and his wife out for.
I still can’t believe he was able to help us get rid of that stuff. We never put in a second order to Kirkland. Steak just wasn’t good for Scott’s heart.
“I don’t think there was a community function to which Scott failed to lend a hand. Whether it was Pioneer Days or the Harvest Festival or the Winter Holidays Extravaganza, Scott was always there to help build booths, serve food or take tickets, or to clean up afterwards. The same was true at church and for both the Boy and Girl Scouts.”
“But I think the one community activity Scott enjoyed the most was going to the grade schools each year and talking to the kids about safety. Many times, over the years, the scheduled safety talks would fall during important investigations to which Scott was assigned. Scott never missed a scheduled talk, no matter how difficult it was to arrange his day to get there. He never canceled. ‘It wouldn’t be right to disappoint those kids,’ he always said. ‘They won’t understand why I can’t be there.’ And teaching the kids about who strangers were and how to best get help if lost or separated from parents was too important to be postponed.”
I pause for a moment and look down at the closed casket.
“Doesn’t he look good,” I heard someone say as my wife and I approached the casket in the funeral home the other day. I looked down and thought, No. His skin was a sallow color I had never seen before. And, although his hair was still the same black it always was, it was different, somehow. The hue was not as intense. The fibers, somehow, thinner and limper as they fell down along his forehead. And his eyes were closed. There was nothing natural about seeing Scott lying there with his eyes closed. Even in college, when he went to sleep, there was movement beneath the lids. But they, too, were still now. He didn’t look good. He didn’t look like Scott.
I clear my throat and look down at my notes. “You can get through this,” I tell myself, and I plunge ahead without looking up at the Puget girls or Scott’s wife or his mother. I don’t even look at my wife.
“It ain’t right, Scott.” I say feeling my voice quiver as it comes up my throat and out of my mouth. “The most important thing in your life is your family.” My hands are so sweaty, that one of them slips from the side of the lector’s stand that I am using to steady myself. “And they are here—“
Scott was always talking about his girls. “You know, my little Amanda is going to be the real heart-breaker of my girls. She is just so sweet. When I have had a bad day, she’ll crawl up into my lap and pat my cheek and tell me that I shouldn’t work so hard. She’ll tell the twins to quit fighting because I’m tired. She’ll even tell Margaret she needs to fix me warm milk and a bubble bath.” Scott would chuckle that soft chuckle whenever he thought of his girls. “They are all pretty special….”
“…Allyson’s going to be a doctor of some kind,” he told me. “She is fascinated by the body and the way it works. She was always asking Dad about his cancer and his treatments. Margaret tried to discourage her. But Mom told her that Dad wanted to talk about it—a lot more than Mom wanted to hear about it—so it was good for him. And Ally didn’t mind asking about embarrassing things, like going to the bathroom and such, and Dad didn’t mind telling her about it in great detail. To be honest, I didn’t stay in the room and listen when the two of them started discussing his treatment. I do know that Dad told the rest of us to leave him and Ally and his doctor alone a couple of times there toward the end. I think that Ally asked the doctor some pretty tough questions that Dad didn’t know how to ask.”
“…Abby Marie is interested in money. I don’t know where she gets it. It’s not like Margaret and I don’t have enough or too much. But she’s always reading about how to make money and keep it and make it work for you. She was only six when she first asked me about her college fund. She wanted to know if I started one for her, or if she needed to start one for herself. And when I told her I had one started for her at the bank, she wanted to know if I could put some of her allowance in there. A little while later, she asked me why I didn’t put the money into such-and-such an account. She had read that it would earn more interest. She already knows where she wants to go to school and about how much it will cost by the time she gets there. I worry that she frets too much about the money. But she sure does know how to make it work.
“…I worry about my mom, now that Dad is gone. I worry that I won’t always be there when she needs someone. I asked her to move in with us. She said no. Can you believe it? She’s alone in that big old house that I grew up in. I told her it was too big for her to take care of by herself. She asked me if I would mow the lawn come summer and shovel the snow in the winter. I promised I would. ‘Then.’ she tells me, ‘I can manage just fine. And you and your girls don’t need me underfoot.’ Like Mom would ever get in the way.”
“…Margaret makes me happy. You know what I mean. I know your wife does the same for you. She doesn’t have to do anything but be there—she doesn’t even have to be there, all you have to do is think about her and it makes you smile and feel warm inside. But she does stuff for you just because….”
“—saying goodbye to you. This ain’t right, Scott.”
We were off duty and were at Glenn’s Tavern having a few beers before heading home for the night. Everything was pretty normal for a Thursday night. A handful of guys were huddled at one end of the bar watching a college game on the tube. The three pool tables were busy, as was the shuffleboard. Scott and I sat near the back, under the old Hamm’s Clock.
A couple of guys from the rubber works came in. They sat near us and asked if we had any good cases going. Scott smiled and said, “Like always, nothing we can tell you about.”
That’s when the rock came through the window.
“What the—?“ Scott said, getting out of his chair and heading toward the door. “Stay away from those windows. Buck, make sure nobody’s hurt.”
Cracking the door open, Scott peered out into the twilight.
“Hey,” he shouted, stepping outside. “You boys. What are you doing out here?”
I made a quick check of the customers in the bar. A few cuts from the fragments of glass from the shattered window. Nothing serious, and someone was attending to each of the injured.
I looked through the hole in the window. There were a dozen kids about a hundred feet away on the far side of the street. Scott was looking the other direction. A smaller band was at the end of the block on this side.
“Need any help?” I asked.
“Everybody okay in there?”
“Yeah. Sure. Just some minor cuts.”
“Call for some help.”
I grabbed the phone from the end of the bar and dialed.
“Let’s cool down before anything serious happens out here,” I could hear Scott saying. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
I told dispatch to send a couple of squad cars down to the bar.
“Put your weapons down,” Scott’s voice boomed
I peeked through the door.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Son,” he barked.
As I started to come out, Scott was staring at a kid across the street, slowly reaching for his revolver. “I’m a police officer, Son. I don’t want to hurt you. But you need to put your weapon down.
I took another step. I heard the shot, and felt Scott slam backward into me.
I lowered Scott down to the ground as gently as I could. I felt the warm blood spurt from the gaping hole in his neck. I put my hand against the wound trying to stop the blood.
I remember hearing the sirens.
I remember looking back across the now empty street.
I remember looking down at Scott. His eyes fluttered. He tried to breathe or talk, but only hot blood came trickling out.
“Scott. Oh, God, Scott. This ain’t right.”
His body gave one last spasm before going limp against me.
The next thing I remember is the ambulance pulling away from the bar and heading to the hospital. There was the sound of the engine, the crunch of tires as they pulled across the grit of the curb, and the pounding of my heart. But there was no siren. There was no need.
“Scott, We shouldn’t be doing this.”
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