How may I help you?" the voice said.How may I help you?" the voice said. Rafael thought for a second then struggled out the words. "There's a man,... he's very sick,... in room 516, in the big hotel on Atlantic Boulevard. I,... I think he needs a doctor." He put the receiver back and bolted as fast as he could out the door. After a few paces he stopped and looked back at the hotel. He shrugged, at least he had done something. He hoped it wasn't too late, Mr. Baker was 'okay'. He started walking again and tried to keep his mind on just placing one foot before the other, each step taking him further away from the hotel. A wet little fart gurgled out of him. Then another. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. He hated it when that happened. Sometimes that happened with Cal too, when they did 'it' in the morning. It probably happened at night too, but he was asleep so he never noticed it. The next one sounded even wetter and suddenly Rafael felt the wetness seeping onto his bottom. "Damn," he swore again, "I'm shittin' my goddamed pants." But it didn't feel like that, and it didn't feel like he was still bleeding. |