I push aside the tray of hospital lunch—tuna sandwich made with bread that curls up at the edges, and vegetable soup with orange-colored grease blobs on the surface. Officer Rex is here, again. He takes the sandwich. He sniffs it and says, “It’s perfectly good.” “It’s all yours,” I say. Maybe my parents will bring me real food, like a pizza. They come every night after work. There’s a price to their visits. My mom always cries. My dad always looks like I did this to him. If I cracked my head open in a hockey game, it would be okay. It’s not okay that I was drunk at a party—like it really makes any difference. I watch Officer Rex devour the tuna sandwich in three bites. He says, “I guess you prefer hot dogs.” I shudder. I say, “Uh, you’ve got some sandwich stuck in your braces.” He tongues the front of his teeth. “It’s a splint.” I hand him a carton of milk. “Here, you can have this too.” He eyes the milk and then says, “You should drink it.” “It’s warm.”
