One Week Later - Discharge Day
"You're sure you're ready for this?" the doctor asked, reviewing Dante's charts one final time.
"I've been ready for three days," Dante said, already dressed and waiting by the door.
The doctor smiled. "Physical therapy three times a week. No strenuous activity for at least a month. And if you experience any unusual pain, swelling, or—"
"I'll call immediately," Dante promised. "Can I go now?"
"Yes, yes." The doctor handed him discharge papers. "Try not to get shot again, Mr. Cross."
"I'll do my best."
Margaret was waiting in the hallway with a wheelchair—hospital policy, despite Dante's protests that he could walk.
"Don't argue," she said firmly. "You're using the wheelchair to the car, and that's final."
Dante looked at me for backup. I shrugged. "Your mother has spoken."
"Traitor," he muttered, but sat down.
As we made our way through the hospital, I noticed people staring. Whispering. Some took photos on their phones.
