周六下午，她开车去了购物中心里的那家面包房。浏览了一本贴满蛋糕照片的活页纸夹后，她预定了孩子最爱吃的巧克力口味蛋糕，蛋糕上装饰有一艘宇宙飞船，发射台上洒着白色的星星，蛋糕的另一头是一个用红色糖衣做的行星。小孩的名字，斯科蒂，会用绿色的字母写在星球的下面。
粗脖子的面包师比她年长，一言不发地听着她告诉自己，小孩下周一就八岁了。面包师穿着一件工作服一样的白色围裙，带子从胳膊底下绕到身后，再绕回前面，牢牢地系在他沉甸甸的腰身下面。他一边听她说，一边在围裙上擦手，低头看着照片，任由她说。他让她别着急，慢慢说。他刚到班上，要在这儿待上一整晚，烤面包，所以他是真的不急。
她告诉了面包师自己的名字，安?维斯，还有她的电话号码。蛋糕周一早上出炉，孩子的生日聚会在下午，时间会很充足的。面包师谈不上快乐。他们俩人没有任何欢愉的气氛，只有最基本的语汇交流和必须的信息交换。他让她觉得不舒服，她不喜欢他这样。当他手里拿着笔，在柜台里面弯下腰的时候，她琢磨着他粗鄙的品行，好奇他这辈子除了烤面包，还干过什么别的。她自己是一个母亲，三十三岁，在她看来，所有人，特别是像面包师这样年龄的人——这个人老得足以当她的父亲了——肯定都有孩子，而且都经历过一段被蛋糕和生日聚会占据的特殊时光。她觉得，他们之间肯定有这个相通之处。但他却对她很生硬，不是粗鲁，只是很生硬。她放弃了和他交朋友的愿望，往面包房里面看，她能看见一台又长又笨重的木桌，一头堆满了装馅儿饼用的铝盘，桌子旁边是一个金属盆，装满了空架子。还有一个巨大的烤炉。收音机里正放着西部乡村音乐。
面包师在一个特殊预订卡上写完信息，合上了活页夹。他看着她说，“周一早上。”她谢过他，开车回了家。
周一早上，这个生日男孩和另一个男孩一起走着上学。他们来回传递着一包薯片，这个就要过生日的男孩正试着要打探出他的朋友今天下午会送给他什么礼物。没注意看路，这个生日男孩在一个十字路口，刚走下了便道，就被车撞倒了。他侧着身摔倒，头磕在排水沟里，腿伸到路上。他闭着眼，腿却前后移动，就像是要爬到什么东西上去。他的朋友扔下薯片，哭了起来。那辆车开出一百多英尺的样子，停在了路中间。开车的男人回过头看，等着，直到男孩晃晃悠悠地站起来。男孩有点站不稳，看起来被撞晕了，但没什么大事。开车的人挂上档，开走了。
生日男孩没哭，也没什么话要说。他朋友问他被车撞了是什么感觉，他也没有回答。他走回了家，他的朋友接着上学去了。生日男孩走进屋里，跟他母亲讲了被车撞了的事儿。她挨着他坐在沙发上，握着他的手，放在膝头，说，“斯科蒂，亲爱的，你真觉得没事儿吗，宝贝？” 突然，他仰面躺倒在沙发上，闭上眼，一下子软了。妈妈发现叫不醒他后，急忙打电话，找到正在上班的丈夫。霍华德要她保持冷静，保持冷静，然后给孩子叫了救护车，自己也赶往医院。
当然，生日聚会给取消了。在医院里，孩子被诊断为受了轻微脑震荡和休克。孩子吐了，他的肺吸进了一些液体，当天下午就得抽出来。现在，他只是看起来像在熟睡，但决不是昏迷，弗朗西斯医生看到父母眼里流露出的惊恐后，特意强调，不是昏迷。那晚十一点，在经历了很多次X光照射和各种化验后，男孩看起来终于舒服地休息了。觉得他醒过来恢复知觉，只是早晚的事后，霍华德离开了医院。从下午开始，他就和安一直陪孩子待在医院，他想回家一会儿，洗个澡，换身衣服。“我一个小时就回来。”他说。她点点头，说，“好啊，我就待在这儿。”他吻了她的前额，他们的手拉在一起。她坐在病床边的椅子上，看着孩子。她在等着孩子醒过来，好起来，自己才可能放松一点。
霍华德从医院开回家。在潮湿昏暗的街道上，他把车开得飞快，过了一会儿，才发觉过来，放慢了速度。到现在为止，他的生活一直顺利，令他满意——大学，结婚，又上了一年大学，得到了商科高等学位，成了一个投资公司里的初级合伙人，而且还当上了父亲。他活得高兴而且一直是幸运的，这他自己知道。他的父母还健在，他的兄弟姐妹都已经混出头来了，大学里的朋友也都在社会里找到了自己的位置。到现在为止，他还没有受过什么真正的伤害，他知道要是倒霉了，或是形势变了，那些潜在的莫名力量会削弱甚至彻底毁了一个人。


“那太好了。”她说。这时，她才第一次觉得他们是一起经历着这个事故。她吃惊地发现，虽然霍华德一直都在身边，自己也一直需要他，但在这之前，一切好像只是发生在自己和斯科蒂身上，她好像在心理上把霍华德关在了门外，没有让他加入进来。她为自己是他的妻子而满怀欣慰。
还是那个护士走进来，又查了一次男孩的脉搏，也检查了从床头挂着的瓶子里流出来的液体。
一个小时以后，另一个医生走进来。他说他叫帕森斯，放射科的。他长着浓密的胡子，穿着懒汉鞋，西部牛仔衬衣和一条牛仔裤。
“我们要带他下楼再照几张片子，”他对他们说，“我们需要再照几张照片，还想做一个扫描检查。”
“什么？”安说，“扫描？”她站在这个新医生和床之间，说，“我以为你们做过所有的X光检查了。”
“恐怕还得再做些，”他说，“不用担心。我们只是再需要几张片子，想给他做一个脑部扫描检查。”
“天哪！”安说。
“对于这类病例来说，这完全是常规程序。”这个新医生说，“我只不过想要弄清楚为什么他还没醒过来。都是常规的内科检查，不用担心。我们待一会儿都带他下去。”
没多久，两个医务人员推着轮床走进来。他们都是黑头发、深色皮肤的人，穿着白色的制服。帮男孩解开管子，搬到轮床上的时候，他们互相用外语说了几句话，推着孩子走出了房间。霍华德，安和他们一起上了同一个电梯。安凝视着孩子。电梯开始下降的时候，她闭上了眼。医务人员站在轮床的两边，什么都没说，只有一次，其中一个人用他们自己的语言说了一句，另一个人慢慢地点头作为回复。
后来，那天早晨，就在阳光开始照亮X光科外面的候诊室的窗户时，他们把男孩推出来，送回到了他的房间。霍华德和安又和他们一起坐同一个电梯，那两个人仍旧站在轮床的两边。
他们等了一整天，但男孩还是没有醒过来。偶尔，他们两个中的一个会离开房间，下楼到餐厅喝咖啡，然后像是突然醒悟过来，感到了负罪感似的，从桌旁站起来，跑回病房。那天下午，弗朗西斯医生又来过一次，检查了男孩后，告诉他们，孩子的情况正在改善，随时都有可能醒过来。护士们——不再是前一晚来过的那位——不时走进来。
一个化验室来的年轻女人敲门，走进来。她穿着白色轻便裤和宽松上衣，拿着一小碟东西，放在床边上的架子上。没有和霍华德和安说一个字，她就从男孩的胳膊上抽了血。女人在孩子胳膊上找到合适的位置下针的时候，霍华德闭上了眼睛。
“我不明白这是怎么回事。”安对那个女人说。
“医生要求做的。”女人回答，“他们要我做什么，我就做什么。他们说，抽这个的，我就抽呗。不过，他到底怎么了？这个小可爱。”
“被车撞了，”霍华德说，“司机撞完人，就跑了。”
年轻女人摇摇头，又看了看孩子，拿着托盘走了。
“他怎么就是醒不过来呢？”安说，“霍华德？这些人得给我点儿答案呐！”
霍华德什么都没说。他重新坐到椅子上，翘起二郎腿，搓自己的脸，看着儿子，然后身体向后靠，闭上眼，睡着了。
安走到窗旁，看着外面的停车场。又是晚上了，汽车亮着灯，开进开出。她紧握住窗台，站在窗口，心里明白他们真是出事了，而且很严重。她很害怕，牙齿直打战，非要合紧嘴才能控制住。她看见一辆大车停在医院门前，一个穿着长大衣的女人上了车。她希望自己是那个女人，然后什么人，谁都行，会开车带她离开这儿，去别的地方，她一下车就能看见斯科蒂正在等着自己，喊着妈妈扑到她的怀里。
一会儿，霍华德醒了，又看了孩子一眼，从椅子上站起来，伸了个懒腰。他走到窗旁，站在安的身边，和她一起愣愣地看着外面的停车场。他们虽然一句话都没说，但却似乎能感觉到对方的内心，就像是他们共同的担忧，使他们自然而然地变得透明起来。
门开了，弗朗西斯医生走进来。这次他换了西服和领带，灰色的头发梳成了中分，看起来好像刚刚刮过脸。他径直走到床边，检查了男孩。“他现在应该已经醒了。没理由这样啊。”他说，“但我可以告诉你们，我们都确信他已经出了危险期。当然，他要是醒了，大家的感觉都会更好些。没理由，绝对没有任何理由会让他现在还不能恢复知觉。很快了。噢，对了，他醒了的时候，头会很痛，那没跑儿的。不过，他的所有迹象都很好，正常得不能再正常了。”


下面是英文版原著

     The birthday boy didn't cry, but he didn't have anything to say about anything either. He wouldn't answer when his friend asked him what it felt like to be hit by a car. He walked home, and his friend went on to school. But after the birthday boy was inside his house and was telling his mother about it-she sitting beside him on the sofa, holding his hands in her lap, saying, "Scotty, honey, are you sure you feel all right, baby?" thinking she would call the doctor anyway-he suddenly lay back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and went limp When she couldn't wake him up, she hurried to the telephone and called her husband at work. Howard told her to remain calm, remain calm, and then he called an ambulance for the child and left for the hospital himself.
     Of course, the birthday party was canceled. The child was in the hospital with a mild concussion and suffering from shock. There'd been vomiting, and his lungs had taken in fluid which needed pumping out that afternoon. Now he simply seemed to be in a very deep sleep-but no coma, Dr. Francis had emphasized, no coma, when he saw the alarm in the parents' eyes. At eleven o'clock that night, when the boy seemed to be resting comfortably enough after the many X-rays and the lab work, and it was just a matter of his waking up and coming around, Howard left the hospital. He and Ann had been at the hospital with the child since that afternoon, and he was going home for a short while to bathe and change clothes. "I'll be back in an hour," he said. She nodded. "It's fine," she said. "I'll be right here." He kissed her on the forehead, and they touched hands. She sat in the chair beside the bed and looked at the child. She was waiting for him to wake up and be all right. Then she could begin to relax.
     Howard drove home from the hospital. He took the wet, dark streets very fast, then caught himself and slowed down. Until now, his life had gone smoothly and to his satisfaction-college, marriage, another year of college for the advanced degree in business, a junior partnership in an investment firm. Fatherhood. He was happy and, so far, lucky-he knew that. His parents 

were still living, his brothers and his sister were established, his friends from college had gone out to take their places in the world. So far, he had kept away from any real harm, from those forces he knew existed and that could cripple or bring down a man if the luck went bad, if things suddenly turned. He pulled into the driveway and parked. His left leg began to tremble. He sat in the car for a minute and tried to deal with the present situation in a rational manner. Scotty had been hit by a car and was in the hospital, but he was going to be all right. Howard closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face. He got out of the car and went up to the front door. The dog was barking inside the house. The telephone rang and rang while he unlocked the door and fumbled for the light switch. He shouldn't have left the hospital, he shouldn't have. "Goddamn it!" he said. He picked up the receiver and said, "I just walked in the door!"
     "There's a cake here that wasn't picked up," the voice on the other end of the line said.
     "What are you saying?" Howard asked.
     "A cake," the voice said. "A sixteen-dollar cake."
     Howard held the receiver against his ear, trying to understand. "I don't know anything about a cake," he said. "Jesus, what are you talking about?"
     "Don't hand me that," the voice said.
     Howard hung up the telephone. He went into the kitchen and poured himself some whiskey. He called the hospital. But the child's condition remained the same; he was still sleeping and nothing had changed there. While water poured into the tub, Howard lathered his face and shaved. He'd just stretched out in the tub and closed his eyes when the telephone rang again. He hauled himself out, grabbed a towel, and hurried through the house, saying, "Stupid, stupid," for having left the hospital. But when he picked up the receiver and shouted, "Hello!" there was no sound at the other end of the line. Then the caller hung up.
  
  
     He arrived back at the hospital a little after midnight. Ann still sat in the chair beside the bed. She looked up at Howard, and then she looked back at the child. The child's eyes stayed closed, the head was still wrapped in bandages. His breathing was quiet and regular. From an apparatus over the 

bed hung a bottle of glucose with a tube running from the bottle to the boy's arm.
     "How is he?" Howard said. "What's all this?" waving at the glucose and the tube.
     "Dr. Francis's orders," she said. "He needs nourishment. He needs to keep up his strength. Why doesn't he wake up, Howard? I don't understand, if he's all right."
     Howard put his hand against the back of her head. He ran his fingers through her hair. "He's going to be all right. He'll wake up in a little while. Dr. Francis knows what's what."
     After a time, he said, "Maybe you should go home and get some rest. I'll stay here. Just don't put up with this creep who keeps calling. Hang up right away."
     "Who's calling?" she asked.
     "I don't know who, just somebody with nothing better to do than call up people. You go on now.
     She shook her head . "No," she said, "I'm fine."
     "Really," he said. "Go home for a while, and then come back and spell me in the morning. It'll be all right. What did Dr. Francis say? He said Scotty's going to be all right. We don't have to worry. He's just sleeping now, that's all."
     A nurse pushed the door open. She nodded at them as she went to the bedside. She took the left arm out from under the covers and put her fingers on the wrist, found the pulse, then consulted her watch. In a little while, she put the arm back under the covers and moved to the foot of the bed, where she wrote something on a clipboard attached to the bed.
     "How is he?" Ann said. Howard's hand was a weight on her shoulder. She was aware of the pressure from his fingers.
     "He's stable," the nurse said. Then she said, "Doctor will be in again shortly. Doctor's back in the hospital. He's making rounds right now."
     "I was saying maybe she'd want to go home and get a little rest," Howard said. "After the doctor comes," he said.


     "No, I don't want to call it a coma," the doctor said and glanced over at the boy once more. 'He's just in a very deep sleep. It's a restorative measure the body is taking on its own. He's out of any real danger, I'd say that for certain, yes. But we'll know more when he wakes up and the other tests are in," the doctor said.
     "It's a coma," Ann said. "Of sorts."
     "It's not a coma yet, not exactly," the doctor said. "I wouldn't want to call it coma. Not yet, anyway. He's suffered shock. In shock cases, this kind of reaction is common enough; it's a temporary reaction to bodily trauma. Coma. Well, coma is a deep, prolonged unconsciousness, something that could go on for days, or weeks even. Scotty's not in that area, not as far as we can tell. I'm certain his condition will show improvement by morning. I'm betting that it will. We'll know more when he wakes up, which shouldn't be long now. Of course, you may do as you like, stay here or go home for a time. But by all means feel free to leave the hospital for a while if you want. This is not easy, I know." The doctor gazed at the boy again, watching him, and then he turned to Ann and said, "You try not to worry, little mother. Believe me, we re doing all that can be done. It's just a question of a little more time now." He nodded at her, shook hands with Howard again, and then he left the room.
     Ann put her hand over the child's forehead. "At least he doesn't have a fever," she said. Then she said, "My God, he feels so cold, though. Howard? Is he supposed to feel like this? Feel his head."
     Howard touched the child's temples. His own breathing had slowed. "I think he's supposed to feel this way right now," he said. "He's in shock, remember? That's what the doctor said. The doctor was just in here. He would have said something if Scotty wasn't okay."
     Ann stood there a while longer, working her lip with her teeth. Then she moved over to her chair and sat down.
     Howard sat in the chair next to her chair. They looked at each other. He wanted to say something else and reassure her, but he was afraid, too. He took her hand and put it in his lap, and this made him feel better, her hand being there. He picked up her hand and squeezed it. Then he just held her hand. They sat like that for a while, watching the boy and not talking. From time to time, he squeezed her hand. Finally, she took her hand away.
     "I've been praying," she said.
     He nodded.
     She said, "I almost thought I'd forgotten how, but it came back to me. All I had to do was close my eyes and say, 'Please God, help us-help Scotty,' and then the rest was easy. The words were right there. Maybe if you prayed, too," she said to him.
     "I've already prayed," he said. "I prayed this afternoon-yesterday afternoon, I mean-after you called, while I was driving to the hospital. I've been praying," he said.
     "That's good," she said. For the first time, she felt they were together in it, this trouble. She realized with a start that, until now, it had only been happening to her and to Scotty. She hadn't let Howard into it, though he was there and needed all along. She felt glad to be his wife.
     The same nurse came in and took the boy's pulse again and checked the flow from the bottle hanging above the bed.
     In an hour, another doctor came in. He said his name was Parsons, from Radiology. He had a bushy moustache. He was wearing loafers, a western shirt, and a pair of jeans.
     "We're going to take him downstairs for more pictures," he told them. "We need to do some more pictures, and we want to do a scan."
     "What's that?" Ann said. "A scan?" She stood between this new doctor and the bed. "I thought you'd already taken all your X-rays.'"
     "I'm afraid we need some more, he said. "Nothing to be alarmed about. We just need some more pictures, and we want to do a brain scan on him."
     "My God," Ann said.
     "It's perfectly normal procedure in cases like this," this new doctor said. "We just need to find out for sure why he isn't back awake yet. It's normal 

medical procedure, and nothing to be alarmed about. We'll be taking him down in a few minutes," this doctor said.
     In a little while, two orderlies came into the room with a gurney. They were black-haired, dark-complexioned men in white uniforms, and they said a few words to each other in a foreign tongue as they unhooked the boy from the tube and moved him from his bed to the gurney. Then they wheeled him from the room. Howard and Ann got on the same elevator. Ann gazed at the child. She closed her eyes as the elevator began its descent. The orderlies stood at either end of the gurney without saying anything, though once one of the men made a comment to the other in their own language, and the other man nodded slowly in response.
     Later that morning, just as the sun was beginning to lighten the windows in the waiting room outside the X-ray department, they brought the boy out and moved him back up to his room. Howard and Ann rode up on the elevator with him once more, and once more they took up their places beside the bed.
  
  
     They waited all day, but still the boy did not wake up. Occasionally, one of them would leave the room to go downstairs to the cafeteria to drink coffee and then, as if suddenly remembering and feeling guilty, get up from the table and hurry back to the room. Dr. Francis came again that afternoon and examined the boy once more and then left after telling them he was coming along and could wake up at any minute now. Nurses, different nurses from the night before, came in from time to time. Then a young woman from the lab knocked and entered the room. She wore white slacks and a white blouse and carried a little tray of things which she put on the stand beside the bed. Without a word to them, she took blood from the boy's arm. Howard closed his eyes as the woman found the right place on the boy's arm and pushed the needle in.
     "I don't understand this," Ann said to the woman.
     "Doctor's orders," the young woman said. "I do what I'm told. They say draw that one, I draw. What's wrong with him, anyway?" she said. "He's a sweetie."
     "He was hit by a car," Howard said. "A hit-and-run."
     The young woman shook her head and looked again at the boy. Then she took her tray and left the room.
     "Why won't he wake up?" Ann said. "Howard? I want some answers from these people."
Howard didn't say anything. He sat down again in the chair and crossed one leg over the other. He rubbed his face.   He looked at his son and then he settled back in the chair, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.
     Ann walked to the window and looked out at the parking lot. It was night, and cars were driving into and out of the parking lot with their lights on. She stood at the window with her hands gripping the sill, and knew in her heart that they were into something now, something hard. She was afraid, and her teeth began to chatter until she tightened her jaws. She saw a big car stop in front of the hospital and someone, a woman in a long coat, get into the car. She wished she were that woman and somebody, anybody, was driving her away from here to somewhere else, a place where she would find Scotty waiting for her when she stepped out of the car, ready to say Mom and let her gather him in her arms.


     In a little while, Howard woke up. He looked at the boy again. Then he got up from the chair, stretched, and went over to stand beside her at the window. They both stared out at the parking lot. They didn't say anything. But they seemed to feel each other's insides now, as though the worry had made them transparent in a perfectly natural way.
     The door opened and Dr. Francis came in. He was wearing a different suit and tie this time. His gray hair was combed along the sides of his head, and he looked as if he had just shaved. He went straight to the bed and examined the boy. "He ought to have come around by now. There's just no good reason for this," he said. "But I can tell you we're all convinced he's out of any danger. We'll just feel better when he wakes up. There's no reason, absolutely none, why he shouldn't come around. Very soon. Oh, he'll have himself a dilly of a headache when he does, you can count on that. But all of his signs are fine. They're as normal as can be."
     "It is a coma, then?" Ann said.
     The doctor rubbed his smooth cheek. "We'll call it that for the time being, until he wakes up. But you must be worn out. This is hard. I know this is hard. Feel free to go out for a bite," he said. "It would do you good. I'll put a nurse in here while you're gone if you'll feel better about going. Go and have yourselves something to eat."
     "I couldn't eat anything," Ann said.
     "Do what you need to do, of course," the doctor said. "Anyway, I wanted to tell you that all the signs are good, the tests are negative, nothing showed up at all, and just as soon as he wakes up he'll be over the hill."
     "Thank you, doctor," Howard said. He shook hands with the doctor again. The doctor patted Howard's shoulder and went out.
     "I suppose one of us should go home and check on things," Howard said. "Slug needs to be fed, for one thing."
     "Call one of the neighbors," Ann said. "Call the Morgans. Anyone will feed a dog if you ask them to."
     "All right," Howard said. After a while, he said, "Honey, why don't you do it? Why don't you go home and check on things, and then come back? It'll do you good. I'll be right here with him. Seriously," he said. "We need to keep up our strength on this. We'll want to be here for a while even after he wakes up.
     "Why don't you go?" she said. "Feed Slug. Feed your-self."
     "I already went," he said. "I was gone for exactly an hour and fifteen minutes. You go home for an hour and freshen up. Then come back."
     She tried to think about it, but she was too tired. She closed her eyes and tried to think about it again. After a time, she said, "Maybe I will go home for a few minutes. Maybe if I'm not just sitting right here watching him every second, he'll wake up and be all right. You know? Maybe he'll wake up if I'm not here. I'll go home and take a bath and put on clean clothes. I'll feed Slug. Then I'll come back."
     "I'll be right here," he said. "You go on home, honey. I'll keep an eye on things here." His eyes were bloodshot and small, as if he'd been drinking for a long time. His clothes were rumpled. His beard had come out again. She touched his face, and then she took her hand back. She understood he wanted to be by himself for a while, not have to talk or share his worry for a time. She picked her purse up from the nightstand, and he helped her into her coat.
     "I won't be gone long," she said.
     "Just sit and rest for a little while when you get home," he said. "Eat something. Take a bath. After you get out of the bath, just sit for a while and 

rest. It'll do you a world of good, you'll see. Then come back," he said. "Let's try not to worry. You heard what Dr. Francis said."
     She stood in her coat for a minute trying to recall the doctor's exact words, looking for any nuances, any hint of something behind his words other than what he had said. She tried to remember if his expression had changed any when he bent over to examine the child. She remembered the way his features had composed themselves as he rolled back the child's eyelids and then listened to his breathing.
     She went to the door, where she turned and looked back. She looked at the child, and then she looked at the father. Howard nodded. She stepped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her.
     She went past the nurses' station and down to the end of the corridor, looking for the elevator. At the end of the corridor, she turned to her right and entered a little waiting room where a Negro family sat in wicker chairs. There was a middle-aged man in a khaki shirt and pants, a baseball cap pushed back on his head. A large woman wearing a housedress and slippers was slumped in one of the chairs. A teenaged girl in jeans, hair done in dozens of little braids, lay stretched out in one of the chairs smoking a cigarette, her legs crossed at the ankles. The family swung their eyes to Ann as she entered the room. The little table was littered with hamburger wrappers and Styrofoam cups.
     "Franklin," the large woman said as she roused herself. "Is it about Franklin?" Her eyes widened. "Tell me now, lady," the woman said. "Is it about Franklin?" She was trying to rise from her chair, but the man had closed his hand over her arm.
     "Here, here," he said. "Evelyn."
     "I'm sorry," Ann said. "I'm looking for the elevator. My son is in the hospital, and now I can't find the elevator."
     "Elevator is down that way, turn left," the man said as he aimed a finger.
     The girl drew on her cigarette and stared at Ann. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, and her broad lips parted slowly as she let the smoke escape. The Negro woman let her head fall on her shoulder and looked away from Ann, no longer interested.
     "My son was hit by a car," Ann said to the man. She seemed to need to explain herself. "He has a concussion and a little skull fracture, but he's going to be all right. He's in shock now, but it might be some kind of coma, too. That's what really worries us, the coma part. I'm going out for a little while, but my husband is with him. Maybe he'll wake up while I'm gone.
     "That's too bad," the man said and shifted in the chair. He shook his head. He looked down at the table, and then he looked back at Ann. She was still standing there. He said, "Our Franklin, he's on the operating table. Somebody cut him. Tried to kill him. There was a fight where he was at. At this party. They say he was just standing and watching. Not bothering nobody. But that don't mean nothing these days. Now he's on the operating table. We're just hoping and praying, that's all we can do now." He gazed at her steadily.


孤单的吧主，今天你就一贴

还有英文的，很好

还是看不惯电子书

回复：25楼
其实我也不喜欢电子书 比较喜欢纸质的