It hurts a lot more than I expected it to. Not only that, but the nurse in the ER looks at the others like they did it to me. The last thing we need is for someone to call the cops on us. “It’s my own fault,” I say sheepishly. “We were putting up posters and my neck got itchy. I guess I forgot I was holding the staple gun.” “It must have gone in pretty deep,” she observes, taking note of the blood trickling down to my collar. Tell me about it. It feels like two spears have been plunged into the side of my head. Worse, I’m beginning to feel a little dizzy, although I don’t mention that to the nurse. I want medical attention, but only to a certain degree. Passing out and being admitted to the hospital is definitely not on my to-do list for the day. Then she starts asking a lot of nosy questions about my parents, and their jobs, and what health insurance they have. And when I point out that I’m the one who’s injured, not my mom or dad, she confesses that all this is so the hospital can get paid for treating me.
