Page 49 of Redline Baby

"Date of birth?"

He rattles it off, then leans his good elbow on the counter.

"I have to say, this is a really dramatic entrance for me. Usually I at least make it to the second date before showing up covered in blood."

The corner of her mouth twitches. She's fighting it.

"Reason for visit?"

"I had a disagreement with the pavement," Kit says. "The pavement won. I'm here to file a formal complaint and possibly get stitches, in that order."

She glances at the bandage on his forearm, then at the way he's holding his left arm tight against his ribs.

"How long ago did this happen?"

"Yesterday." He's smiling. Wide and easy. The kind of smile that sells the idea that he's completely fine, that this is all just a minor inconvenience, a funny story he'll tell at a bar next week. "Not too bad, really. I've had worse from a bad shave. Actually, no. It's bad. I want to be seen fast and get out of here. Do you guys have a frequent flyer program? Because I feel like I should be earning points."

The nurse looks at me for the first time.

Her eyes are tired but sharp.

"Are you family?"

"Friend," I say. "I'm the one who brought him in."

She nods once.

"Insurance?"

"None," he says. His voice goes quiet for the first time.

The nurse types something.

"Emergency contact?"

There's a beat. Then Kit laughs too loudly, filling the pause before it can settle into anything. "Oh, that's depressing," he says. "Do I have to answer that? Can I put to be determined and get back to you?"

The nurse waits. I speak before Kit can deflect again.

"Put me down."

Kit's head turns. He looks at me, a quick sideways glance, his eyebrows pulling together in something that might be surprise or confusion or the beginning of an objection. His mouth opens.

"Soren Halverson," I continue, looking at the nurse instead of him. I give her my phone number. She enters it. Kit closes his mouth. He doesn't argue. He just stares at me for another beat, that bright, manic energy flickering like a bulb on a loose connection. Then he turns back to the nurse and produces another smile.

"There you go," he says.

The nurse prints a wristband and wraps it around his right wrist.

"Have a seat. Someone will call you back shortly."

We move down the aisle.

His left knee starts bouncing the second his weight settles into the chair. I take the one beside him. Kit fills the silence immediately. He always does.

"You know, I was thinking," he says, "they should really redesign these chairs. They're clearly built by someone who hates the human spine. I'm pretty sure this is a war crime."

I glance at him. His knee is going like a piston, the toe of his boot tapping a rapid, uneven rhythm against the linoleum.