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like he’s going to be in Gower for a while yet.”
    I gulped. We had been beating around the bush. It was time to ask the question I had been wondering all weekend.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with him? I mean, is he going to be okay eventually?”
    â€œWell, Reggie, it’s a little too early to tell,” Dr. Stevens said. “He has swelling on his spinal column as a result of the collision. Sometimes when that happens, it can cause paralysis. That’s what Nate has now. He has no movement or feeling from his waist down.”
    I was stunned. I looked out across the beautiful swimming pool, but all I saw was Nate Brown lying on that football field, not moving. My stomach churned. Sweat beaded on my forehead. This was my worst nightmare come true.
    â€œParalysis?” I said, barely getting the word out of my mouth. “How long is it going to last? He will get better, won’t he?”
    Dr. Stevens looked at me intently. “Like I said, it’s too early to tell, Reggie. Often in these cases, the swelling subsides and the feeling comes back. Sometimes the person makes a full recovery. Other times, there is permanent damage to the spinal cord—”
    â€œPermanent damage?” I said. “You mean like he wouldn’t get better? Maybe not play football again?”
    â€œFootball isn’t the important thing here,” Dr. Stevens said. “Right now, Nate and his family are worrying about whether he will be able to walk again.”
    I felt the tears rush to my eyes even though I was fighting them back. “Oh my God.”
    â€œReggie,” Dr. Stevens said, “you have to keep this in perspective. What happened on Friday night was a fluke. You had nothingto do with it. From what I remember of the play, you couldn’t have seen Nate coming. So don’t beat yourself up. Nate is getting the finest care possible. All we can do is hope for the best.”
    I heard Dr. Stevens’s words, but I wasn’t listening. Not really. All I could think of was Nate Brown lying in that hospital bed, his family gathered around. His mother wishing I was dead.

chapter six
    The walk home from Jeff’s house seemed like a long one. I had barely said a word during supper. Afterward, when Jeff asked if I wanted to take a swim, I had quietly declined.
    I told him it was because I wasn’t feeling well, which was sort of true. But I wasn’t sick, just dejected. I had gone to Dr. Stevens hoping for a positive update on Nate Brown. Instead, I had received almost the worst news possible.
    I saw the Lincoln spirit sign on the front lawn as I approached our house. It had been there ever since the start of this school year. Members of the pep squad planted them on the lawns of all the varsity football players. Mine was black with white lettering—the Lincoln colors—and it bore my number, 77. Underneath the number were the words
Reggie “Stick-’em” Scott
.
    The nickname had come from my reputation as a middle linebacker. I was a hard-hitter. That was the main reason I was a starter for the Lions. There were certainly bigger, faster guys on the team, but nobody hit as hard as me. Usually, the sign stirred a feeling of pride inside me. Tonight it just made me queasy. Who wanted to be known as “Stick-’em” when a kid was lying in a hospital bed?
    I grabbed the sign and roughly yanked the metal ends out of the grass. Resisting the temptation to break it over my knee, I walked around to the side of the house and dumped it by the trash cans.
    I didn’t say much to my parents that night, although I could tell they were concerned about me. At about 9:00 PM , I told them I was going to bed.
    â€œLittle early, isn’t it?” Dad said, looking up from his newspaper.
    â€œI’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
    â€œCome here a minute,” Mom said.
    I walked over to the kitchen counter, where they were both sitting.