Alive on Arrival: Chapter 10

10

I force three or four bites of the lukewarm meatloaf down my throat. To be honest, it’s not all that bad. It’s just the thought of industrial-grade hospital food that turns my stomach. Meatloaf prepared in big vats, fake mashed potatoes stirred in big pots where only hours before, cockroaches were milling about. Wilted salad. And to wash it all down with? Warm milk or even warmer apple juice. The food prepared in hospitals might as well be prison food.

But here’s the thing: I need energy. My system is full of drugs, most of them opioids. Maybe I’m no genius, but I’m no dummy either. I write books for a living. Mystery and thriller books. I know all about plotlines and story. I’m well aware of what is about to happen next in my personal story with Juan Juarez and the sudden, tragic death of his son, Fredo. What’s it all come down to? I need to get the hell out of this medical center, and I need to get out tonight.