Seventeen
“YOUR FLORIDA ROOTS serve you well, Tom,” Martin says. “That’s definitely not a mosquito bite.”
“I didn’t think so,” I say.
“Then what bit me?” Nate says. “A spider? A scorpion? It wasn’t poisonous, was it?”
Martin finishes his examination of the small bruise on Nate’s neck and shakes his head. “Nate, no insect or arachnid was responsible for that bruise. It looks like an injection site.”
“But I wasn’t injected with anything,” Nate says.
“Apparently, you were, Nate,” the doctor says, “and that explains why you had a drug cocktail in your system.”
“Why didn’t you notice it that night?” I ask.
Martin shrugs. “It wasn’t there. A bruise from an injection takes a couple of days to show up. Nate, has the area been sore since Friday night?”
“Well, yeah,” he answers. “But I thou
