Page 81 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
I press the doorbell. It’s a soothing chime.
The door opens, and it’s Patricia’s wife, Jo, whom I recognize from the couple of funerals I’ve seen her at. Her light red hair is cut short, her face has freckles, and she’s wearing a dress with a flower pattern on it. She is very pregnant.
When she lays her eyes on Oscar and me, she looks confused, disturbed.
I’m shirtless and shoeless, wearing nothing but jeans. And aside from the very visible bruises and blood all over my bodyand Oscar’s, we’re covered in dirt and other stains, our hair is messed up, and our clothes are tattered and torn.
“Can I help you?” asks Jo.
“Sorry for bothering you,” I say. “My name is Hunter. Patricia is my cousin.”
“Hunter? Oh, my God, Hunter! I remember seeing you at some family events, and Patrica’s talked so much about you.” She looks us up and down. “What happened to you guys?”
I gesture. “This is my friend Oscar. We got into some trouble tonight.”
Jo pokes her head out the door to see if there’s anybody else around.
“Come in, come in.” She steps aside.
Patricia appears, wearing a casual black dress. Behind her are two men: one Black guy in his late thirties and one Asian dude in his late twenties. All three of them are holding glasses of red wine.
An expression of surprise and concern washes over Patrica’s face. “Jesus Christ! Hunter, what the hell happened?!”
“It’s a long story,” I say. “But basically we both got hit by a car. An SUV. And everything hurts.”
The Black guy says, “Sit down, boys.”
“Do you want some water?” says the Asian dude.
Jo starts walking up the stairs. “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”
Oscar and I sit on the plush couch, while the two men head to the kitchen and Jo goes upstairs.
Patricia kneels down before us. “Was it a hit and run?”
“Something like that,” I say. “Oh, and this is Oscar.”
“Hi, Oscar.”
Oscar lifts up his chin. “‘Sup?”
Patricia then says to me, smiling, “Is this your boyfriend?”
Oscar scrunches his face. “Boyfriend? Nah. We straight.”
Patricia sits next to me.
I whisper to her, “I’m not out yet.”
“Oh, sorry,” says Patricia. “I’m a little tipsy from the wine. We all are. Except for Jo, of course. Can’t drink because of the . . .” She mimes having a pregnant stomach.
I nod because I don’t know what else to do.
“Did you get my text?” she asks. “About your test results? You’re completely in the clear, so at least that’s one good thing.”
“Thank God,” I say. “I forgot that my phone is dead, so I never got your text.”
The two men come back into the living room, each with a glass of water, and Jo returns with a first aid kit and some clothes.
