Sycamore Row - John Grisham

ack was cramping and Lonny tried to shift slightly. An IV drip kept the clear but potent
meds in his blood, and for the most part kept the pain away. In and out, in and out, he
came and went, barely awake for a few moments, then dead again. He’d lost track of
the days and hours. They had turned off his television and taken away his remote. The
meds were so strong that not even the worrisome nurses could awaken him at all hours
of the night, though they tried.
When awake, he could feel movement in the room—orderlies, housekeepers, doctors,
lots of doctors. He occasionally heard them speak in low, grave voices, and Lonny had
already decided he was dying. An infection he couldn’t pronounce or remember was
now in control, and the doctors were struggling. In and out.
A stranger appeared without a sound and touched the guardrail. “Ancil,” he said in a
low but strong voice. “Ancil, are you there?”
Lonny’s eyes opened wide at the sound of his name. It was an old man with long gray
hair and a black T-shirt. It was the same face, back again. “Ancil, can you hear me?”
Lonny did not move a muscle.
“Your name’s not Lonny, we know that. It’s Ancil, Ancil Hubbard, brother of Seth.
Ancil, what happened to Sylvester Rinds?”
Though terrified, Lonny remained frozen. He smelled whiskey and remembered it
from the night before.
“What happened to Sylvester Rinds? You were eight years old, Ancil. What happened
to Sylvester Rinds?”
Lonny closed his eyes and breathed deeply. For a second he was gone, then he jerked
his hands and opened his eyes. The stranger was gone.
He called the nurse.