So I’m straddlingthree-year-old Timmy’s chest. Somehow I manage to squirrel over and peer intoeach of his ears.
Pink.
Damn. I was hoping for either beige or lobster red so I could call his earsclear or infected. Now I’m undecided. Worse, the glance into each of Timmy’sears leaves me vulnerable. He grabs my stethoscope, holds it up to his mouth,and screams. My eardrums explode. I howl and loosen my grip. That’s all thedaylight Timmy needs. He wriggles away and streaks toward the door. I reachfrom the floor, a conga drum sound pounding inside my head—bambada bambambada baaaa—snag Timmy’s ankle and reel him back in.
“Timmy, I just want to see if you’re all right,” I say, the words bangingagainst my head like a rap song. “I want, to, check, your, vital signs. Itwon’t hurt a bit. I promise.”
I try a reassuring grin.
Timmy growls and kicks me in the throat.
“Grrragh,” I moan. I fold my arms under his knees and wrestle him backdown.
“Fun times, huh?” I say. “Okay, I’m going to count your heartbeats. You wantto count with me?”
“MOMMMMY!”
“You’re hurting him.” A tortured voice from across the room.
“I think it’s the other way around,” I say.
“He’s three.”
“I doubt that,” I mutter. “Kid’s a midget wrestler. A pro.”
For the rest of this deleted scene and the conclusion of Timmy vs. Me,please click HERE!