When the doctor came to dress my wound, I screamed like a pig being slaughtered—but I refused to let Lucas leave. Made him stand there and watch. I wanted him to see every last red, swollen blister on my back and let that 47-year-old heart of his drown in guilt.
"Gentler… gentler, doc. Don't scare the kid."
I lay facedown on the bed, teeth bared in pain, but still turned to comfort Lucas, who stood rigid in the corner.
His face went dark as the bottom of a pot.
"I'm 47. Not three."
The words came out through clenched teeth.
"In Dad's eyes, even at eighty, you're still my baby."
I replied weakly, throwing in a look of pure fatherly adoration for good measure.
Lucas's face turned iron-blue. His whole body trembled—whether from rage or disgust, hard to say. He spun around and slammed the door on his way out.
The second it clicked shut, I dropped the act and fished my phone from under the pillow.
Quick message to my buddy: "Any unusual movement near the Gilbert house tonight? Whether I can send you 500k a month for living expenses for the rest of your life depends on how you perform."
Reply came instantly: "You got it, Dad. Heard a bunch of professional debt collectors are heading that way."