Chapter 8: Whiteboard

The whiteboard in the clinic supply room said I'M FINE and then a number.

The number was forty-one.

Raven stood in front of it with a paper lunch bag in his hand and read it twice.

"That's a lot of lying," he said.

"It's a lot of data," said Noah, from behind a shelf of gauze.

"When did you start keeping it on the wall?"

"Wednesday. It's a public health matter."

Raven opened the lunch bag.

Inside was a sandwich cut in triangles, an apple, a thermos of soup, and a sheet of paper taped to the inside flap.

AGENDA, it said, in Benjamin's neat hand. 1. Eat. 2. Tell Noah you ate. 3. Do not skip step two.

"Your father's quite thorough," Noah said.

"He's never written me an agenda in his life."

"Mine was in the good font."

Noah came around the shelf with a box of syringes in his arms and a pen behind each ear.

Raven thought, very clearly, that he wanted to put his mouth on that tilting jaw.

"Practice in an hour," he said instead. "I should go."

"I'll walk you down."

The locker room was loud.

Nine players had flesh-coloured stickers on their necks.

The point guard had one on his wrist, the freshman had one on his earlobe, and the centre had a very large one on his forehead.

"For luck," said the centre, with dignity.

"You're all so supportive," said Raven.

"We're not losing a game while you've got a sticker. I read the stats."

Thompson came in last with his jacket zipped to the chin.

He looked at the row of stickers on the bench.

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