The annoyed young doctor prepared to take a scraping of the welt, but Amos caught his wrist.
“I’m real sorry you think I’m such an inconvenience, Doc,” he growled quietly. “But since you’re coming at me with sharp objects, I’d appreciate it if you’d be more careful.”
The doctor huffed and puffed until Amos released his arm. Glaring at him, he approached once more, muttering about junkies and their disgusting diseases. Amos stopped him again, his fingers tightening uncomfortably. Van stepped forward calmly, watching.
“You’re under the misconception that I’m a junkie. I get that. Everyone who’s homeless is obviously, without doubt, a drug user, right? I mean, we can’t just be down on our luck. That would mean we’re people. I’m not a drug addict, Bubba. I’m not a drunk. What I am is a man with a lot of pain and a real short temper. I want you to get someone else to do this job, cause you’re not touching me.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I think you’ll find that he can,” Van said, approaching in a menacing fashion. “You need to work on your attitude, buddy. My friend has been through a lot the last twenty-four hours.”
“That’s hardly my fault,” the doctor snarled.
© 2019 Dellani Oakes