Even as he rolled past the secretary’s desk he knew he’d been unprofessional, but just then, as he banged on the down button of the elevator he didn’t particularly care.
He’d never been much of one for working out before he’d lost the use of his legs, but now he had arms that the more obsessive kinesiology students he’d known in undergrad would envy. He could use a powered chair of course, but what was the point of that? He was young, able bodied (aside from the obvious) and rarely needed to rush anywhere. Plus, at one point he’d been a tinkerer with bikes, and he’d developed a geared wheel system of his own that at least had kept his mind and hands active outside of physical therapy.
As he got into the elevator he thought back to New Orleans. He’d spent the night before on the edge of Lake Ponchittrain and the next morning he’d packed up his gear and started to walk into the city. The plan had been to walk across the city in a day and camp south of the city, and then inflate the pack raft and work his way to the mouth of the river.
It didn’t quite work out like that. Instead, he found himself in the hospital, a bullet lodged in his spine, a whole bunch of doctors and a face full of lawyers, along with only a fuzzy idea how he’d gotten there.
Now, if Scott had wanted to be a lawyer, he’d have gone to law school, but he did have enough sense to not sign anything while being pumped full of morphine.
By the next day, the more opportunistic lawyers were gone, Dodd had flown in with the University’s counsel, and there was a city detective there as well.
“So, Dodd, the doctor told me I got shot, and that I’ve likely lost the use of my legs. Fill me in a bit more.”
“That’s a question for the detective here.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m your advisor, and apparently, your emergency contact with your insurer. You never told me that before. Janell is here too, but waiting out in the lobby. She’s not happy about not being your contact, but that’s for another time. I’m not sure you’ve ever met Charles Spurgeon before, but he’s the university’s counsel. He’s agreed to protect your interest’s pro-bono.”
“Your name is Charles Spurgeon? This isn’t another morphine dream?”
Sighing, Mr. Spurgeon shrugged.
“No, it’s my name I’m afraid. How much morphine are you on?”
“No idea it’s not my area of expertise. I’m sure the doctors are doing their best. So, detective, what is your name, and if it’s also the name of a 19th century preacher I’ll ask you to all come back later just to be on the safe side.”
“I guess it depends on your point of view then Mr. Scott. My name is John Brown”