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Guitar Gifts, part X

A short story in small installments.

The next day, Gifflet went to the nearest hospital, as he supposed that was where they would have taken the woman. He asked about her at the desk. A stick-thin black-haired nurse and a rotund blond-haired nurse refused to tell him anything, since he wasn’t family.

But as he was turning to leave, the large one pointed to his guitar, and the skinny one said, “Are you that guy who sang to her until the ambulance came?”

Gifflet nodded.

“That was incredible. The paramedics told us all about it. They were so impressed with your gift.”


“It’s not easy to calm someone in distress,” said the large nurse. “We deal with that a lot and—well, I can pin down somebody if I need to, but she—” she jerked her thumb towards her colleague and shook her head.

"They can thrash around and make it so much worse,” said the small nurse. “They get such an adrenaline rush.”

“Yeah,” Gifflet agreed, “she grabbed my hand so tight she nearly cut off the circulation.”

The nurses nodded knowingly. Then the large one said, “She’s bashed up, but she’s going to be just fine.”

“Oh, good.” Gifflet let out a sigh.

“It could’ve been a lot worse. It’s lucky you were there.”

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