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Chapter 14 - PC Controversies.
The next two days went by without too much additional drama. Brian was thankful for the momentary reprieve, especially since he didn’t think it would stay that way for long. But at least for those couple of days, everything was calm. Brian went to the office everyday. Justin stayed at the loft and worked on the projects that Brian or Cynthia would bring to him. And everything seemed normal.
Only two minor blips marred the tranquillity. The first occurred on Wednesday when Brian came home after a long day and found Justin still up to his elbows in the most recent Liberty Air campaign. After having to scream at the incompetent VanGuard art department twice earlier that morning, Brian had sent Cynthia back to the loft with the mess so that Justin could take a stab at it. This was a much bigger project than anything he’d previously asked the boy to work on, so he hadn’t expected that much would be accomplished on the first day - even with the whole art department working on it, this campaign would conceivably take a week or two to complete. So, when he got home and found a stack of at least twelve print-ready layouts, he was floored.
The kid had taken the fucked up work Brian got from his own art staff and turned it into something remarkable. The young artist had taken the stock photos Liberty Air wanted to use and used his own artistic skills to turn the backgrounds into Van Gogh-esque masterpieces. It somehow turned the mundane photos of random 747s and uninspired flight attendants into art work. The everyday pictures of airport scenes were now juxtaposed in front of swirling orange and yellow sunsets, rolling green-blue hills and starry night skies. Brian had never seen anything like it. It was amazing. And the client would undoubtedly love it.
“Wow!” Brian picked up the layout on the top of the stack and scrutinized it more closely, not finding anything at all to criticize. “Not bad, Justin. Not bad at all!”
The self-effacing young artist looked down, too shy to meet Brian’s eye, but evidencing just a hint of a proud smile nonetheless. Brian shuffled through the rest of the stack, asking the occasional question or two, but only finding a few minor things that would need to be changed or adjusted. Justin, in his usual stubborn way, managed to answer all Brian’s questions without uttering a single word. He’d point to something, hand over some report or graph, bring up a web page on the computer or, when no other answer would suffice, he’d nod, shake his head or shrug. Brian had to laugh at their unconventional form of communication. But somehow the boy managed to get his point across much more clearly than most of the professionals Brian worked with who would spout off their opinions in virtually endless, wordy diatribes, and still fail to get their point across.
“This is excellent, Justin. I can’t believe you got this much done in one afternoon. How’d you manage that? Did you glue yourself to that chair and not move the whole day?” Brian teased, not expecting any response, of course. And sure to form, Justin didn’t say a word, but his stomach spoke up for him, growling loudly right at that exact moment.
Brian looked over at the immaculately spotless kitchen - the one he’d had stocked full of copious quantities of foodstuffs - then back at the PC who’d been working like a slave on Brian’s project all afternoon. And he KNEW that he’d somehow fucked up again. Maybe those critics accusing him of being unable to care for hungry boys and house plants had something there? Cause, unless he was gravely mistaken, it seemed pretty clear that the boy sitting in front of him had not been making use of those piles of groceries.
“Justin,” Brian turned the chair that the artist was sitting in so that the boy was forced to look at him. “Tell me you HAVE been eating during the day while I’m gone. I didn’t buy all that fucking food so it could sit in the fridge and rot. You ARE making yourself meals, right?” The boy bit his bottom lip and looked away, obviously startled by the anger in Brian’s tone. “Fuck, Justin! Did I not tell you to eat? I thought I’d made it clear. Remember Standing Order Number One? You are supposed to eat . . .” Then Brian remembered the exact wording of the order he’d given the boy, “as soon as you’re served any food . . . Shit! Do you have to be so fucking literal all the time? Fine. Let’s amend Standing Order Number One. You are allowed to eat at ANY time you are hungry. If you are home alone and get hungry, I expect you to fix yourself food and eat. You don’t need to ask permission to feed yourself. And anything you want to cook or eat is fine with me, okay? Just, please don’t fucking starve yourself to death, or else Debbie will have my balls for buttons on her vest at work.”
Brian stood there, silently waiting until Justin nodded that he understood the new order. Brian shook his head and grumbled about stupid stubborn PCs as he marched over to the phone and called in an extra large order from his favorite Italian restaurant. He figured he’d take a page out of Debbie’s book, stuff the kid to the fucking gills with pasta and hope it helped. He’d also have to remember to be more careful about the way he worded his instructions from here on out. Fucking PCs and their direct order thing.
On Thursday, Brian made sure to text the kid around noon, just in case, and asked when he was stopping for lunch. The kid sent back a screenshot of the computer screen with an arrow added pointing to the circled clock readout on the bottom left. Brian had to laugh at the stubborn little fucker who was so adamant about not giving in and speaking that he wouldn’t even deign to answer a text with words. You really did have to give the kid credit for his pertinacity, though. Brian respected him for sticking to his guns.
The second disconcerting event happened on Thursday evening. Brian had been ordered to make an appearance at the Diner - Debbie having apparently learned through osmosis of Brian’s failing with regard to the feeding of his new Twink - so she could properly feed them both. He obediently bundled up his PC as soon as he got home and escorted the boy to the familiar eating place. The Diner was fairly packed with the pre-bar set, meaning that no tables were free when they arrived. Brian steered Justin over to the counter instead, taking the last two spots at the far end. Deb bustled over to them with a huge smile on her face and immediately enveloped Justin in one of her signature bear hugs.
Justin had been getting marginally better at the touching thing over the five or so days since he’d been with Brian. When they were alone, he almost always allowed Brian to casually drape an arm around his shoulders or even hold his hand. In bed, they’d fallen into a comfortable routine where the boy would start off the night huddled on the far edge of the bed all alone but then, gradually, as he felt more comfortable, he’d scoot over closer and closer to Brian’s side of the bed until he ended up falling asleep curled around Brian’s side with his head resting in the the hollow of the larger man’s shoulder. Brian had been very careful not to press for anything beyond the occasional kiss. He let the boy set the pace as to how much intimacy he wanted and when. And it seemed to be working. But Justin still wasn’t exactly happy to be mauled with affection by Debbie Novotny as soon as he entered the Diner, even if he did know, rationally, that Debbie didn’t mean anything sinister by her actions.
“Deb, the boy needs to breathe, please,” Brian commented dryly while he pried her fingers off the boy’s back.
“Oh, sorry, Justin. I’m just happy to see that you're doing so well.” Debbie stood back and surveyed the boy with a critical eye. “Good job, Brian. I’m proud of you. I honestly didn’t think you’d last this long.”
“Your confidence in me is underwhelming, Ma,” Brian complained, giving her a facetious smile as he seated his charge on the stool behind him so that Debbie wouldn’t be able to get at him as easily. “We’re both doing just fine so far, thanks for asking. Justin hasn’t starved to death or threatened to kill me once.”
Debbie laughed but didn’t deny that she had worried over just those things. Luckily, it was too busy in the Diner just then to stand and chat. She quickly took their drink orders and moved off to deliver the food that the cook had just placed in the serving window. Brian relaxed on his stool, enjoying his coffee and the familiar atmosphere of a place that had always seemed a safe haven for him and most of the rest of the gay community.
Which is probably why what happened next took him so much by surprise. One minute he and Justin were simply sitting quietly at the counter while Justin looked over the menu, and the next minute, Brian’s serene thoughts were interrupted by an insistent tapping on his shoulder. He looked over at the person standing behind him, vaguely recognizing the stocky guy dressed in worn work clothing and sporting a shaved head but a full, rufus beard. Brian thought he remembered fucking the guy once, in the far distant past, but couldn’t remember anything else about him other than the fact that he’d been easily forgettable. So, he had no idea why the guy had approached him now.
“Can I help you?” Brian asked, his tone indicating that he’d probably rather be saying ‘fuck off, already’.
“Yeah. You can, Kinney,” the guy replied with a sneer, his glare directed at the back of Justin’s neck where the PC tattoo was plainly visible above the collar of the sweater he’d worn that day. “You can get that piece of shit PC out of here. This is a respectable place, not a fucking whore house, and we don’t need his kind in here.”
“What the fuck is your problem?” Brian growled back, momentarily at a loss for words in the face of such blatant hostility coming out of the blue.
“You and your slut here are my problem,” the hairy bear shot back. “I’m trying to fucking eat here and I don’t want your sexual perversions shoved in my face while I’m doing it. I don’t come play with my sex toys in your dining room while you’re having dinner and I don’t want you bringing yours in here.”
“Back the fuck off, asshole.” Brian demanded, standing up and moving so his body was sheltering Justin from the guy’s attentions. “We’re just sitting here waiting for our dinner like everyone else in the place. It’s not like I’m fucking him across the table in front of you. Although, if I remember correctly, you didn’t object to watching me fucking other guys before, so I’m not sure why you should be talking crap about it now.”
“Yeah, well, you weren’t shoving your Personal Cumdumpster in my face that time, Kinney,” the guy sneered and glowered over Brian’s shoulder at the cowering PC. “Cause that’s all PCs are right? A convenient place for losers who can’t find willing partners to stick their dicks? And I gotta admit that this one’s pretty, but I figured you of all people, Kinney, wouldn’t have to resort to somebody who sold themselves as a sex toy because they weren’t good enough to do anything else with their lives. I don’t want that kind of trash hanging out anyplace I frequent.”
“Sounds to me like you’re just jealous because nobody’s interested in you as a sex toy, Mack,” Debbie intervened before the vitriol could get any deeper. “And, if anyone’s a piece of trash who doesn’t have anything better to do with their lives, it would be you . . . Or did I not hear that you’d lost your job - AGAIN - and had to move back in with your mother?” Debbie emphasized her point by jabbing the end of her fuzzy-topped pen into the big, burly guy’s chest, causing him to take a step back. “Last time I checked this was a fucking PUBLIC facility, Mack, and that means that we allow pretty much anybody who wants to eat in here. Although, the management does reserve the right to deny service to anyone, and I think that should probably include hate-filled bigots who don’t mind their tongues. So, as I see it, you have two options here, Mack . . . either you apologize to Justin, or you leave. Which do you wanna do, Asshole?”
“Fuck this. I’m outta here!” the disgruntled barbarian hissed, including Debbie in with those he hit with his parting look of disgust. “If you’re going to let whores and tramps take over the place, then I don’t wanna be here anyway.”
“Good! We don’t need small-minded, small-dicked, bigots in here anyway. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Debbie yelled at the man’s retreating back, then turned to confront the rest of the Diner’s patrons. “And if anyone else agrees with him, you can leave right now too! I won’t stand for prejudice of ANY kind in this Diner. Not prejudice against people based on their sexual orientation. Not prejudice against anyone because of their race or religion or country of origin. And NOT prejudice because of a person’s financial condition - which is what discrimination against PCs boils down to. Because, believe you me, nobody - NOBODY - wakes up one morning and decides they WANT to sell their body for money or contract themselves out to be a PC. It’s not like it’s a prime career choice or something, people. So I don’t want to hear ANY of you looking down on someone who was forced into that situation - for whatever fucking reason - because, you’re all just plain fucking LUCKY that it hasn’t happened to you. Got it?” Debbie glared around at every single person in the now completely silent Diner, staring each and every one of them down into submission. “Good. Now, everybody get back to your fucking food before it all goes cold!”
Brian was still so boiling angry even after Mack had left that he didn’t move to sit down. Even Debbie’s harangue didn’t really placate him. He couldn’t believe that anyone would dare to say that kind of shit to his face. Or to a mere kid like Justin. He knew that there was a lot of discrimination against PCs out there - everyone had heard someone or other making bad jokes or derogatory comments - but before this, it had all just been sort of academic as far as he was concerned. He’d never had to personally deal with it. And, whereas he’d long since become inured to the slurs people threw his way because he was gay, he’d been taken unawares by this.
After Debbie finished staring down the Diner, she immediately turned back towards Brian and Justin, her feathers still all a’ruffle, and her expression daunting. Before Brian knew what hit him, the matronly woman had him reseated and was hugging him and petting him in front of the entire crowd of watchers. He might have struggled against such treatment, if only he hadn’t been so shocked that he still couldn’t think straight. So he simply let his surrogate mother dote on him and murmur comforting nonsense about how she wouldn’t let that kind of person say shit that they knew nothing about.
“That fucking idiot,” she was still too riled up to stop railing on the departed Mack. “All anyone really has to do is look at this poor boy and they’d know that he’s too fucking young to have contracted himself out. It’s not like he chose this. But even if he did, that kind of attitude is unacceptable. I won’t hear of it. Not in MY Diner. Not here. Not ever.”
“The problem with prejudice though, Deb, is that it’s unthinking. It’s not logical. It’s not reasonable. It just spouts off without regard to the truth. So whether or not Justin was responsible for his own contract doesn’t really matter. Does it?” Brian answered, mired in defeat. “And that was just the one guy who was stupid enough to say aloud what a lot of others think . . . Fuck!” Brian pushed his coffee cup away from himself in disgust. “I didn’t know it would be this bad,” he admitted, looking askance at the bowed boy sitting on the next stool over. “I didn’t even think about it before. I mean, the way Lindsey acted the other night was bad enough, but . . . oh, fuck it all. Things never really will change will they? We finally make a little headway against the homophobic assholes who didn’t like us because of who we fuck, and then we have to deal with some other fucking bigotry based only on the fact that some rich fuck took advantage of somebody like Justin’s father, who was desperate enough to do practically anything for money. It never really changes, does it?”
“I won’t believe that, Brian. I can’t,” Debbie insisted. “People are just afraid of what they don’t know. And since there’s always something new they still don’t understand, that fear just changes. But I won’t ever believe that they can’t be educated. And I won’t ever stop trying. So don’t you stop either. Hear me?”
“I hear you, Deb. Not sure I believe, though,” Brian shook his head and frowned at the now dejected and submissive demeanor of the boy sitting next to him. “But, whatever. I’ve had enough of fighting the good fight for one night. Think you can wrap up our dinner to go?”
“Sure thing, Honey. Sure thing.” Debbie conceded for the moment. “But don’t you let them win by hiding yourself or this boy away forever. Okay?”
Brian didn’t bother to respond. He didn’t know what more to say. And he didn’t know how much he could take of this new pile of shit heaped on his life. But, once again, he knew it was only a fraction of what Justin would be subjected to for the rest of his life. So, somehow, Brian would have to learn to deal with it too and maybe figure out a way to help his PC through it along the way.
⚣ ⚣ ⚣ ⚣ ⚣
Friday morning arrived along with the cliche of bad weather portending the bluster of the coming day. Neither Brian nor Justin were looking forward to the dinner that night with Lapointe. But, before they could even get to that, they had to deal with Justin’s doctor appointment. And Brian could tell from the outset that Justin was about as uncomfortable with doctors as he was with crowds.
The boy had barely slept the night before, which meant that Brian hadn’t slept well either. Finally, around two am, Brian had pulled the tossing, turning boy towards him, physically pinning the boy to the bed with his whole body, and refusing to move until the kid finally settled down. Brian didn’t know if it had worked and he’d finally fallen asleep, but at least he’d stopped thrashing around. But, when it was time to get up the next morning, Brian could tell that the PC was completely exhausted and stressed out. Not the best way to begin a day that was guaranteed to be stressful in and of itself.
Cynthia had snagged the first available appointment of the day so, at the very least, they would be able to get it over with early. Brian chivvied the reluctant boy out of bed and into the shower, but didn’t have the heart to tease him with the now almost standard morning masturbation show. Justin was simply too wound up and Brian feared it would just add to his worries. So they were able to shower quickly, get some toast in lieu of breakfast and head out in plenty of time.
Dr. Petrie’s offices were located in an annex of Allegheny General Hospital. Even with the blowing wind and pouring rain, it didn’t take long at all to drive the short distance from the loft to the large medical complex. However, Brian was worried before they were halfway there. Every mile closer they drove, the more Justin shrank in his seat, curling in on himself as if the weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders. Brian didn’t know what, exactly, was causing this reaction, but even if he had known, there probably wasn’t anything he could do about it. He hesitated to even reach out for the boy’s hand - fearful that the mere touch would send the kid completely over the edge. Instead, Brian just hurried on, intending to get this over with as soon as possible and hope for the best.
When they arrived at the doctor’s office, Brian had to practically carry his recalcitrant PC into the building, ignoring the way Justin flinched at every single touch and cringed away from everyone they passed. This was far worse than he’d ever seen the boy, except for that time at the grocery store, but there didn’t seem to be anything Brian could do to make it less trying. He was grateful though when the nurse at the reception desk showed them right back to an exam room without making them wait. At least in the small exam room, Justin’s panic could be contained.
Dr. Petrie arrived very soon thereafter. He was exactly what you’d expect a doctor of his standing to be. He looked like a modern-day version of some perfect television doctor of the fifties; a tall, middle-aged white man with short, greying hair and a somber expression, dressed in a white lab coat. The man’s unexceptional appearance didn’t seem to reassure the boy, though. Justin shriveled even more in the chair where he was sitting, seemingly hoping to disappear from sight if he could only make himself small enough. Brian’s reassuring pat on the shoulder didn’t help at all. But the doctor only eyed the situation with a clinical eye and said nothing, his professionalism masking any other opinions he might have about what he observed.
“Good morning, Mr. Kinney. I’m Dr. Petrie. Nice to meet you,” the man announced, advancing to shake Brian’s hand. “I see here that we’re supposed to be looking over your new PC for the insurance records? Is that all? Or do you have any other concerns I can help you with today?”
“No. Of course not, Doctor . . . I just assumed that the cowering in corners and fear of being touched was normal,” Brian snarked, with an unbelieving shrug.
“Quite . . . Well, then, let’s see what we see.” The doctor put the file folder he’d carried in with him down on a counter and pulled on a pair of latex exam gloves. “Do I have your permission to approach the PC?”
“Of course. That IS why we’re here, right?”
“Sorry, Sir, but I’m required to get your explicit permission before I’m allowed to touch your PC. It’s standard in this type of exam,” the man explained.
“More stupid rules. Yes, of course, you have my permission to touch him. And, for the record, his name is ‘Justin’. He’s not ‘the PC’.”
“Very good. I’ll note that in his file for future,” Dr. Petrie replied with perfect professional detachment. “Now, if we could have Justin sit on the exam table . . .”
The usual physical exam routine followed, with the doctor poking and prodding at the boy, looking in various bodily orifices and asking questions, most of which Brian couldn’t answer. The process was slowed down quite a bit because of the way Justin recoiled at every single touch. He also, not unexpectedly, refused to answer any of the questions put to him. He even refused to say ‘Ahhhh’ when the doctor was examining his throat. Brian merely shrugged when the doctor looked to him for help in getting the patient to cooperate. Brian wasn’t about to order the kid to respond to the doctor - he’d already promised himself that he would let the boy have at least that much control over his life and would never try and force him to speak if he wasn’t ready. Because of this, though, the exam took a little longer than usual.
When he was through, the doctor stripped off the gloves, tossed them down a waste chute and then ordered the PC to put his clothing back on. “Well, Mr. Kinney, as far as I can tell, your PC is in satisfactory physical health. I’ll run the blood samples we took and do the usual panel of STD tests as well as a basic health screening panel. But, provided that those turn up as we expect, there doesn’t appear to be anything I need to be concerned with.” The man picked up the file and made several notations in it before he continued with his summation. “I do, however, note that the PC seems to have a substantial number of sequela related to the trauma he suffered approximately a year and a half ago. I’m assuming you’re aware of the attack your PC suffered?”
“Some of it,” Brian replied. “I know he was attacked by a classmate and suffered head trauma. But that’s about all. As you already noted, Justin isn’t much for talking so I haven’t heard the whole story from his end yet. And, even if he did want to talk about it, from what I hear, he may not even remember it. I am worried about the after-effects though. I’ve noticed that his hand sometimes shakes and cramps up when he’s over worked it. Is there anything you can do about that?”
“Yes, that is noted in his file. From what it says here, the attack on your PC resulted in severe Traumatic Brain Injury. Apparently the skull was cracked in several places and required surgery to remove bone fragments as well as to relieve excessive intracranial pressure. In laymen’s terms, they basically drilled three holes in his skull, so that fluid wouldn’t build up in the brain and cause further damage. Afterwards, the patient was in a coma for about two weeks. According to the doctors who were in charge of his care at the time, as a result of these injuries, the PC suffers from several long-term, moderately debilitating conditions, including a significant memory loss related to the incident and some motor skills complications, primarily on the right side. The doctors also noted severe psychological trauma, which is likely the cause of some of the more obvious symptoms we’ve seen here, like the fear of being touched and possibly even the aphasia, or lack of speech. I would imagine he’s also exhibiting other symptoms? The file noted a fear of crowds, panic attacks, insomnia and general social anxiety.”
“Yep. That about covers it all,” Brian sighed, not happy to have all his concerns documented and confirmed. “So, why didn’t the doctors treat all this? I mean, it doesn’t seem like Justin’s recovered much at all if all those things were noted right after the attack and he’s still dealing with it today? It’s been more than a year since that attack. Isn’t there anything that can be done?”
“Yes, of course. There are a number of treatment options,” the doctor reassured. “For example, physical therapy should help with the motor control issues and relieve the cramping and tremors that you’ve noted in his hand. If he’d followed through with that back when he was first injured, he likely wouldn’t be having nearly the problems that you’ve noted now.”
“Then why didn’t they follow through on the physical therapy? Shouldn’t that have been done right after the attack? I thought that kind of shit was more effective if it’s done sooner?” Brian asked, confused about whatever the doctor was implying.
“It says here in the file that physical therapy was discontinued at the insistence of a Mr. Gary Sapperstein . . . I’m assuming that was his Handler at the time?” the doctor offered after reading further in the file.
“That fucker . . . I can’t believe that he discontinued Justin’s therapy. Well, actually, I CAN. He’s a fucking worm, so of course he’d pull that kind of shit. Probably so he could save a few bucks on the doctors,” Brian grumbled. “It’s not too late though? Justin could still benefit from physical therapy, right?”
“Undeniably. Physical therapy should help substantially,” Dr. Petrie affirmed, jotting something more in the file as he answered Brian’s questions. “I’m going to refer you to a colleague of mine. He’ll do a complete PT evaluation and let you know what he thinks can be done. But I have confidence that your PC will see at least some improvement from PT.”
Then the doctor paused, as if thinking through what he planned to say next and hesitating. “May I ask you one other question, Mr. Kinney?” Brian shrugged and nodded. “You don’t really seem like the usual PC owner we see in here. I get the impression you . . . that you maybe care for this boy? That you truly want to see him get better. And not just so that he’ll be insurable or a better personal companion because of it?”
“No, I imagine I’m not your typical PC owner, doc,” Brian hesitated to explain further, not sure where this was going and not convinced that he could trust this doctor even though Cynthia’s friends had said he was a decent guy. So he continued but was intentionally a bit vague in his answers. “But, yes, I do want to see Justin get better. And not just because of the fucking insurance.”
“That’s what I thought.” He paused again, then took out a prescription pad and tapped his pen on the paper for a few seconds before continuing. “Mr. Sapperstein also discontinued the psychological counselling that your PC was receiving. That’s likely exacerbated the symptoms you’ve been noticing. I agree with the diagnosis of the doctors treating your PC at that time - this has all the earmarks of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. And a fairly severe case at that. Counselling would likely help control these symptoms to at least some degree. Although, a lot of it may ease on its own with time. If you’re interested in pursuing mental health counselling for the PC, there are a number of well known PCRA licensed therapists in the area.”
Brian nodded. He thought that the way the doctor was wording this portion of his evaluation was strange. He was going on and on about the PTSD, but then seemed only luke warm about the possibility of therapy. Didn’t doctors go gaga over any kind of fucking therapy? Why wouldn’t he want Justin to get help? PTSD sounded pretty fucking serious to Brian, and even though he wasn’t really all that gung-ho about shrinks, in this case he might make an exception. So why was Dr. Petrie hesitating?
“Great! If it’ll help, then just tell me what to do. Who to go to. I’ll do whatever Justin needs, Doc,” Brian urged.
Petrie studied Brian carefully for one more minute, before nodding and then scribbling something on the prescription pad he’d been holding. “Other than the physical therapy, the only thing I would recommend for your PC right now is better nutrition. He appears to be a little undernourished. I’m writing you a script for a good multivitamin that might help.” The doctor tore off the one sheet he’d been writing on and then quickly wrote something else on the underlying sheet before handing both over to Brian. “And, if you decide you want to pursue the mental health counseling, I can have my nurse give you a list of PCRA approved therapists for you to contact. Otherwise, I’d say your PC seems just fine and you’re good to go.” The doctor reached out his hand one more time to shake his client’s hand. “Good luck, Mr. Kinney.”
Brian noted that the handshake and kind wishes were accompanied by an incongruous wink that totally threw him off for a second. His gaydar hadn’t pinged even once around the good doctor and that was usually the only reason men winked at him. But there was something here. Brian looked at the doctor questioningly, and noted that the man was pointedly looking down at the prescriptions in Brian’s hand. The top one was, clearly, just the script for the vitamins. Nothing surprising there. Brian quickly thumbed the edge of that sheet up and looked at the second script . . . Aha! That explained the surreptitious looks and the wink.
“Thank you, Doctor. I promise I’ll follow through on that,” Brian replied, equally as circumspect as the good doctor even though he didn’t know why it was needed. “Oh, and I’d like to get a complete copy of Justin’s medical records before I leave. I’m especially worried about any allergies you have listed there. I know he’s allergic to Tylenol as well as some other medicines - I want to make sure I have a comprehensive list of all that in case of any emergencies. And, seeing as he’s had a lot of other issues, I’d better just get everything else as well.”
“Of course, Mr. Kinney. I’ll have my assistant get that together for you right away,” Petrie replied agreeably. "Nice to have met you and your PC.” And then the doctor was gone and Brian and Justin were left alone.
“Interesting man,” Brian commented ambiguously. “Alright. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Justin didn’t reply, but at least he wasn’t cowering in his chair anymore now that the doctor was gone. “Let’s get out of here, J. I find I’m all of a sudden sharing your dislike of doctors.” Justin quickly pulled his clothing back on. When Brian went to put an arm around the younger man’s shoulders this time, Justin didn’t flinch away. Good thing, too, since Brian wanted to have the boy close beside him so that he could show him the second prescription the doctor had handed him.
The note on the prescription sheet read:
‘If you really want Justin to get better, don’t take him to a PCRA licensed therapist. They won’t do squat. They’re not allowed to help him the way he needs. Take him to this therapist instead . . .’